


Ithildin

by Mythlorn



Series: Song of Stars [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Durincest, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Thilbo, bagginshield, fikili, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-08-16 08:49:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8095732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythlorn/pseuds/Mythlorn
Summary: A post-BoFA timeline divergent fanfiction. Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli survive the Battle of the Five Armies, but everything they know and love is changing, and Arda teeters dangerously on the brink of war.





	1. Chapter 1

 

**Chapter One:  
**

      Fíli was out of throwing daggers, and his blade had broken long ago. Breathing hurt, and the blond dwarf had grown so used to the sting of sweat in his eyes that he couldn't be sure he was alive anymore. His hands were raw, his arms heavy from absorbing blow after blow, and everything felt surreal.  
  
He had already lost a great deal of blood.  
  
Kíli swam in and out of his focus in the distance, and orcs came and went; some felled under the weapon Fíli had taken from a corpse. The Company had not turned the tide of battle as hoped, and death seemed certain. Strategy would have been helpful, if there had been time for it—but when Kíli’s battle shout morphed from one of desperation to pain, Fíli found himself more concerned with something else.  
  
The leonine dwarf began to shove smaller goblins out of the way and onto the oncoming swords of his brethren. Fíli had already lost sight of their uncle when he had rushed off towards the bodyguards of Bolg, and he couldn’t lose Kíli, too. He had promised their mother!

Through a gap in the fray, Fíli saw an arrow pierce his brother’s shoulder. And when Kíli began to stagger, that was when all rationality fled. With a bellow of outrage that was louder than all the cries around him, Fíli charged toward his sibling. As he did, the battle diverged around him, and he raised his borrowed axe.

Heat lanced through his chest, but still Fíli did not stop; and as he drew closer he could see what Kíli had been fighting towards. Their uncle had fallen. Thorin was a crumpled and bloody mess, covered by broken armor and the shredded remains of a once-blue tunic. One of Bolg's goblin bodyguards stood above the dwarf king's prone from; a dark smile twisting its gap-toothed mouth. Fíli had mere seconds to think, and the decision he made was to protect Kíli. He could no longer help Thorin.  
  
“More of the line of Durin! Bring me more!” the creature cackled.  
  
Blood dripped black from the blade it stretched out in front of itself as Kíli dropped to his knees before his fallen uncle. And staring fearlessly up at the towering bodyguard, the youngest Durin's lips moved, though Fíli could not make out the words over the din. Whatever he said, though, made the beast’s grin widen and bought them some time.

“Good!” it thundered jovially in reply, blade already ascending.

Fíli was desperate and terrified, and he arrived just in time to shove his younger brother out of the way. There was an impact to his body, but it was so great that he did not really feel the sting of it. Then, the blackness came. He felt his uncle’s hand stroking down the side of his face, and heard Kíli screaming for him, but he could not respond.

Somewhere in the distance he thought a small voice was shouting “The eagles are coming!” but he couldn’t seem to stay awake.  
  
~*~  
  
       Fíli had a strange dream about flying with eagles. In it, his brother was riding beside him in the sunset light. Kíli was laughing as the wind rushed past them, his brown eyes sparkling with their normal mischief. And Thorin was beneath them, carried by another great bird.  
  
War seemed so far away.

Deep down, the blond dwarf knew what he was experiencing was too good to be true. That something wasn’t right. And gradually, he became aware that he was lost within a tangled web of memories and the desires of his heart. He found himself wishing he could have this particular scene emblazoned in his mind's eye forever—instead of the dark memories lurking at the edge of his sub-conscience. But reality was closing in, and smoke, blood, and fire continued to fill his senses even though he fought waking.  
  
All good things had to come to an end eventually, and thus Fíli returned to consciousness. The dream drained away like tepid water from a bath, and horrible actuality closed in. There was noise, faintly, and touch. Where was he? His head was muddled.  
  
Everything hurt, his chest was one amorphous burning pain, and someone was holding his hair and braids as he was violently sick. His eyes had swollen so badly that he could barely see from them, and unfamiliar background sounds filled his ringing ears. He knew that someone was speaking, but he had no idea what they were saying, or in what language.

Each heave gradually made him more aware of his surroundings. That, and the fact that he had sutures in his back, side, and stomach. He was spitting the taste of bile from his mouth when he finally recognized the tongue he was hearing. Elvish. The words were gentle and sweet—though he did not understand them. It was almost as if they were a spell to drown out his fear and pain. And maybe they were, because some of his wounds began to ease along with the nausea.

When the owner of that kind voice tried to guide him back down, he didn't fight them because he couldn't. And as he lay there, shuddering and trying to regain his breath, a miserable wail came to his ears. It was a pitch of distress that he knew well, and even in his quasi-unconscious state, he had instinctively been trying to get up and respond to it.  
  
Kíli. Kíli was crying out for him. What had happened? The blond dwarf understood that his own wounds were severe, but he was still desperate to go to his brother; and determined to do so despite being too weak to stand. He grew more frustrated by the second, and nothing made sense to his dazed mind. The only thing Fíli _was_ certain of was that he had to protect his sibling. He didn’t think elves were fond of torturing anyone; then again, it didn’t make the wailing anything less than upsetting. _Elves. Why were there elves?_

“Rest, friend. We will bring him to you, I swear it. Rest!” that now-familiar voice consoled him again, this time in Westron.

An elf. Definitely an elf … and they had soft hands, so they were not a warrior.

Ignoring his blinking and confusion, whoever was assisting Fíli covered him with a warm blanket, then pressed a cool teacup to his lips. And he drank what was offered because it was cold. It soothed his throat despite being bitter, and soon enough his vision began to clear. A female. An elven healer with dark hair; though those were pointless observations. Nothing was more important than finding his brother! Kíli needed him; and regardless of the fact that Fíli's senses were still tangled in on each other, he began to look around to find a way to his sibling. It wasn't that he didn't believe the elf when she implied that Kíli was here, and being brought to him. But he didn't exactly trust her, either.  
  
Blinking again and peering blearily out the nearest window, it was unmistakable to the blond dwarf that he was in Rivendell. Which explained elves, and maybe even his dream of eagles. And the fact that he was alive. _The battle!_ Remembering with a jolt, Fíli tried to sit up again—but careful hands restrained him once more.  
  
“There they are. They are bringing him to you,” the healer reassured him again. “Just as I promised.”  
  
The screaming quieted only moments before someone warm and familiar was settled onto the bed beside the leonine dwarf. _Kíli!_ A strong attendant had carried him to Fíli’s side. Two other healers had accompanied that elf; and it was as Kíli acquiesced and clung to Fíli that they made sounds of relief. It must have been exhausting to be unable to comfort their patient.

Kíli held on fiercely to his brother’s braids, whimpering weakly as he struggled into his arms. The blond dwarf held him close. He could feel warm tears and soft breath against the curve of his bare shoulder—the only place where there weren't any bandages covering his skin. “Kee,” Fíli croaked feebly.

He was unaware of it, but those were the first words he had spoken in three days; and the healer beside him brightened.

“Ah, he speaks,” she said, respectfully letting the two dwarves reacquaint with one another. A better medicine she did not have. Not even the Lord of Imladris possessed such a power.

“And the other does not scream,” one of the two healers that had tending to Kíli said; looking relieved as he rubbed a pointed ear. Apparently, Kíli had been wailing unhappily and heartily through the two brothers' separation. Fíli didn’t know how long that had been, but he could take a guess from the strained looks on the healers’ faces.

As Fíli’s vision continued to sharpen from the draught he had taken, he began to feel stronger, especially with his brother in his arms. He wanted to inquire about their uncle, and the others in the Company, but he dared not. Not when Kíli was so very fragile, and their elven hosts looked so put upon. Besides, just to have his sibling in his arms again was the sort of miracle he could only desperately hope for, and he told himself to be content for now. Later he would ask of Thorin's fate.

“If you can,” one of the two healers began; drawing Fíli's attention from his brother as he approached with bandages and salve in hand, “ … soothe him so we can tend his wounds?” The sire gestured pleadingly to Kíli who gave every elf in the room an incensed look from the corner of his eye. It was clear that the youngest Durin had been dispensing his righteous indignation upon their hosts. The healer also had many visible bite marks on his arm. The poor elf must have lost a coin toss, or it had come to be his turn again. Either way, he looked just as displeased about the whole situation as Kíli.  
  
~*~

       Thorin Oakenshield lay curled onto his side, facing away from the warm light of Imladris, exhausted and disheartened. It was the Lord Elrond who tended to him, and the elf lord’s hand was carefully stroking that dark, stubborn hair back from the dwarf's face. Thorin had cursed Elrond, cursed all elves, had fought and cried, and now … he had gone still.

The Lord of Imladris’ touch was needed, and while his patient _was_ a dwarf, he would not hold such things against him. In the end, Thorin was a being in need of a healer more badly than most. His wounds had been tended, but his heart was hurt in such a way, that had he been of elf-kind, Elrond would have feared him fading. Elrond also knew that culturally, it was wrong of him to touch the hair or beard of a dwarf that was not kin, but it was the only place he could risk contact that was not battered to pieces.

“You made a mistake, Thorin Oakenshield. Yet none of your Company are dead, and your nephews live. The latter of which it would do some good to see you,” he murmured, his touch careful and soothing. It was the only way to keep the stubborn dwarf’s attention, and it did seem to calm his restlessness. “I even know a certain hobbit who might like you to get well and pay him a visit. It would not hurt him to know, and he would keep your secret. He has already forgiven you.”

“But I cannot forgive myself,” Thorin said darkly, the words quiet and flat.  
  
“It is hard. But you must. Your nephews need you,” Elrond replied.  
  
It had been difficult enough to get the dwarf to talk, let alone about his feelings, and to an elf of all beings. But in the end Thorin had yielded, announcing Elrond ‘tolerable.’—Though it had taken a great deal of careful negotiation, and personal revelation on the Lord of Imladris' part.

“I have taken everything from them. Their home, their mother, nearly their lives. I have invalidated their sacrifice and bravery by leaving them victors of a battle that cannot be sung of, and their ability to return to their kin. They may have followed me of their own free will, but in the end, I held their hearts and I knew it. Someday they will realize this, and hate me as they should. The line of Durin has grown weak; it has grown ill. The sickness of the mind, the weakness of our spirit ... if it has passed on to them as it did me, I cannot help them. I cannot even help myself.” The words exhausted Thorin, and he lay there struggling to catch his breath.

“We have agreed to help you, Thorin Oakenshield. You will be dead to your kin, and my people will be certain that Dáin takes the throne beneath the Mountain. Those are the two things you must part with forever, not your nephews. In a way, you are reborn,” Elrond said, trying to find the positives.

“That is no comfort! I have lost my one true jewel, and I have broken my own heart. This is the price I have paid instead of death, and death would have been kinder. Leave me,” Thorin growled, a lone tear wetting the corner of his eye.

“I will not depart until you have had this draught,” Elrond lifted a bottle from the side table, “ … and let me tend your wounds. But even then, I will leave you with company.”

It was a not-so-subtle way of saying that the king in exile wouldn't be left alone, not until Imladris could see an improvement in him that suggested he might not take his own life. Normally such a thing would be a point of pride in a healthy dwarf, that suicide wasn't an option. But Thorin was not well, and he had not been for a long time before the battle.

“Tell them I have gone ahead,” Thorin said. “That way they will not know the shame.” He then closed his tired eyes, hiding into the blankets.

“You are being selfish, Master Dwarf. Your nephews need you, and we have worked hard to keep you alive. If you cannot remember how to live for yourself, perhaps you should remember how to live for _them_.” There was something in Elrond’s words, a kind of hollow experience laced with an edge of hurt. It spoke volumes of understanding the desire to lie down and die from loss. After thousands of years it was practically a given thing.

When Thorin no longer responded to him, the healer was able to give him a draught for pain that also ease his nerves. The medicine took effect quickly, and Elrond then change bandages without any opposition. “I will leave for now, for I must send word to Thranduil of Greenwood. _We_ will make this happen. One mistake does not take away the worth of a heart. Only an unwillingness to learn from it and let others help right it,” the peredhel stated.  
  
And as he expected, Thorin didn't answer.  
  
~*~

      Kíli was sleeping deeply, and Fíli had not been able to stop stroking his brother's hair. Their healer, Athae, was busy explaining what had come to pass while they had been unconscious. It had been the eagles who had spotted Fíli and Kíli. Fíli’s golden tresses had stood out from the air, and both brothers had easily been scooped up. Beorn had rescued Thorin, and then the battle had passed in favor of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.

To diffuse the situation regarding leadership of the Mountain, and because of how grave their wounds were, Fíli and Kíli had been delivered by eagle to Imladris. Thorin had stayed behind to say his farewells, but his wounds had not been as great as once thought. He had time to apologize to his kin and to Bilbo, but when he lost consciousness, he, too, was sent to Rivendell. The sickness that had driven his mind made it too risky to let him take the throne under the Mountain. Or be anywhere near his old home, for that matter.

It was Elrond who had understood the predicament best, and it was he who had sent word that Thorin and his nephews had succumbed to their wounds in his care, even though they hadn't. It had freed all the dwarves of the Company, including Fíli and Kíli. The two nephews could now live without the burden of the Mountain, and away from that madness which tempted the line of Durin like a curse.

And by the time Athae had finished relating what she knew of the situation to Fíli, she informed him that Thranduil had delivered the Arkenstone and Orcrist to an empty tomb, that the funeral had gone magnificently, and that none were any the wiser of the true situation. Fíli tucked all her information away for another time, though; as he was busy internally debating what he knew of the politics between elves and dwarves.

These happenings put the line of Durin deeply in the debt of the Ñoldor. He supposed he found it less onerous than his uncle would, but he knew Thorin had to be less than happy, wherever he was. That, too, worried him. His uncle had not been himself of late, even before the battle against the goblins.

“Can we see Uncle? Is he well? How are his wounds?” Fíli finally asked. He would rather hear it first than to have Kíli do so.

“The wounds to his body are not half as great as those to his pride and heart. I know he would want to see you, though he stubbornly refuses visitors,” Athae said regretfully.

“Oh,” Fíli replied, crestfallen and a bit bruised, though he understood. “Perhaps when he is better, that is what I will tell Kíli,” he said, forever the elder brother. The protector.

“That is his name, then?” she asked with a laugh. “He did not want our help. Only to be with you and your uncle. He screamed for three days straight. It is no small wonder he sleeps now,” she said.

“And he bites fiercely,” one of the put-upon elvish attendants nearby sighed, revealing the bite marks on his arms, too. “He would have none of our help. Even drugged he fought us while we tried to mend his hurts. He must be nearly as stubborn as your uncle.”

This made Fíli chuckle apologetically.

“I am sorry, he is very protective of those he loves. Sometimes more unwisely than the next dwarf. Thank you for taking care of him,” Fíli said, looking down at Kíli’s sleeping face, expression soft and loving.

“Rest, both of you,” Athae murmured. “Soon you will be strong again, and ready to begin your new lives.” She rose, then, and let herself from the room; leaving attendants outside the door in case anything further was needed.  
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~  
  
**A/N:** Positive feedback and encouragement are appreciated  <3 Thank you for reading! This fiction has been previously submitted. I am re-working it, adding in the lost chapters, and then resubmitting it as I have time. (Right now, I am waiting for my beta to pick this chapter over again. All stupidity is mine.)  
  
I would like to add that I'm really not into criticism. Some things mentioned here are head-canon and not perfectly true to Tolkien. I'm writing this story for my own entertainment. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't, no one is making you read it and there are SO many other authors on this site that I encourage you to read instead.  
  
**Beta Credit: All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn**  
**Zeta Reader: All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser**

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A post-BoFA timeline divergent fanfiction. Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli survive the Battle of the Five Armies, but everything they know and love is changing, and Arda teeters dangerously on the brink of war.

**Chapter Two:**

  
    Glóin did what he could do. He started a fire. Their losses had been terrible, and even with Dáin’s reinforcements and the close comfort of their fellow dwarves, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield was utterly shattered.  
  
Morale had only gotten worse when Thorin’s sister had arrived.  
  
No one had been prepared for Dís, and no one had wanted to tell her. How could they? Of course, she had known within a heartbeat. When no one could say a word to her, or look her in the eye. When hats had been taken off, and fists tapped over hearts.

It had been Balin who had held her, and tried to comfort her grief as she wailed and threw herself upon her brother’s tomb. And when her children had not met her in the funeral hall, it was he who tried to tell the lioness of Durin, that not only had her brother been lost, but so, too, had her sons. It had been Dwalin who had scooped her up into his strong arms when her wails had faded to weak sobbing, leaving her too broken to stand. And it was into Óin’s care that Dwalin brought her, worrying that soon he would be burying her beside Thorin. The loss of the last of the direct line, and one of the few remaining dwarf women … it would have been even more staggering to the Company than the battle they had just withstood; so all of the party made an unspoken pact to leave the weight on their minds unvoiced.

    Glóin laid his tattered cloak down on a dry patch of dirt near the fire, and Óin moved there to sit with Dís. Amongst the stale reek of fire, blood, and death, the Company healer had cradled her exhausted form to his chest, stroking her hair. He knew when he was losing a patient, and despite the fact that she had no wounds, she had gone still. So still. Dwalin began to make a tea for her in an old tin cup over the fire. A tea to drug her into sleep. It was a drink that wasn't foreign to any of the Company anymore, nor an action unfamiliar to a warrior. This war, the last war they had the heart for, it had laid them all low. And despite all they had lost and given, the dwarves were still without a home.

It would be some time before the halls of Erebor could be reclaimed, and hundreds of tents straggled about haphazardly in the shadow of the Mountain. The tension was still high, and even though the siege was over, the war felt far too close. The truce was uneasy at best. Nothing had gone well except for Thorin’s funeral, and Dáin’s ascension. Normally a victory would see songs and drinking, and golden words about the glory of the dead. Not so after the Battle of Five Armies. The tongues of dwarves were dry, and only silence remained in the cold rain and muck.

Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur were sitting nearby in the drizzle, staring into the sputtering fire while trying to give Dís privacy in her pain. Dori, Nori, and Ori had gone out to see what they could do about something to eat. The Company of Thorin Oakenshield was not ready to go into Dale. Not yet. Not when there was this much hurt. They would not burden Dáin’s people with their bellies, and they would not trade with the merchants of Bard. It wasn’t a matter of hatred; it was one of exhaustion and avoidance. The fires had gone out, but their losses could not be comprehended, let alone counted.

They were still burying their dead, as were the elves and men.

    As the Company rested, cold and confused in grief, the feeble daylight seemed to grow brighter and the air easier to breathe. Every dwarf felt it as surely as his next heartbeat. It was a feeling of life, of green growing things, and it pushed back the stench of smoldering goblin corpses. There was a sense of direction to it, and the dwarves turned as one to look.

It it was the elves of Mirkwood.  
  
When Thranduil came into view from behind a stand of tents, as majestic and as glorious as the tall birch trees, he arrived with no fanfare, and only a small entourage. And despite the air of intensity around him, the Company was certain he could not be there for them. The dwarves knew him, remembered him well, and could not help staring blankly at him. Some with defiance, and some with willfulness. None were ready to see him again. Not after the funeral. They didn’t want his hope, or whatever it was that he would try to sell them. They had no home, and their true king was dead. Why would anything change, and why would Thranduil care unless he wanted something? They didn't understand why he had come, but they universally hoped he wouldn't stop.

Yet stop, he did.

    The King of Greenwood paused on his way past the dwarves' makeshift camp. It was as if he sensed their disapproval, but he was not looking at them. Instead he was gazing distantly at Dís, a fine squint of pain tightening the corners of his eyes. Then, appearing to reach some sort of decision, he lifted the hem of his cloak and waded into the mud in the Company’s direction. He made a gesture at the small party accompanying him him, and they did not chase after him. But they did watch with worry as he came to a stop in front of Dís and Óin.  
  
All the dwarves stayed seated in defeated frustration. There was nothing they could do about Thranduil except bear his presence, and hope he would insult them and leave. It was Dís that they feared for most, as she was so broken they did not know what she might do. Óin’s arms tightened around her, his glare not missed; and from the look on Dwalin’s face, it seemed the universal hope was that heiress would give the elf-king a mauling.

But that was not to be. Surprising them yet again, Thranduil bowed low, then knelt down on the sloppy ground before Dís and her physician. A few of those following him gasped their surprise and disapproval, but he waved them back again. To gain the dwarf woman's attention, he stroked the side of her face … and lifted one of her cold hands to kiss the back of it.

Dwalin looked like he was seriously debating smashing the elven king in the forehead, but it was Balin who held him back.

“The sister of Thorin Oakenshield,” Thranduil said. “Beauty, rough as it may be, has always run in the bloodline. You could be none other. Please do not fade to your grief,” he asked of her, his voice deep, but quiet.

Nobility was paying homage to nobility, and Dís, though shaken, finally seemed to understand this. She blinked at him, knowing she should recognize him though she was practically blind with her heartbreak.

“I know well the loss of family,” the elven king said to her silence, experience telling him she could not speak. Not yet. “And I know that you feel my people have done you a wrong. We have. We could not save your king, and for that my heart holds great sorrow. His mind might have carried a sickness, and he may have been misguided; but he was brave, and he did give his all, as would any great king—”

Dís expression warred between grief and anger, but Thranduil shook his head at her; his golden hair practically pooling in her lap as he leaned closer. She tensed, ready to fight him, but he slid an arm around her, drawing her close to the scent of fresh grass, of the forest, and life. Without really meaning to, she reached back; taking a gasping breath as she rested her cheek against his shoulder. She looked like she had been drowning, and just had her first real draw of air.

“—And he held the heart of the mountain, steady and strong. In the end he was more generous than all who remain. He gave up his life for peace. For that I have returned what is rightly yours, and his. The Arkenstone upon his breast, and Orcrist at his hand. To you who needs far more than that, I can only offer you my condolences and …” he kissed the top of Dís’ head, hiding a tear of his own in the thick waves of her hair. “I can offer you light, to guide you through the darkness. You will need it,” he said.

He took something from the breast pocket of his robes. It glittered as he coiled it into her palm, and closed her small, work-roughened hand over it. At that she leaned back reluctantly from him, her gaze meeting his with more surety. “Someday,” he said quietly. “when peace can be restored, once again we will paint the runes upon your gates. Once again, our forest feasts will not be so lonely.”

There came a call from across the camp, and the elf king acknowledged it in his own tongue before standing. He then gave Dís one last bow and strode off; leaving her clutching something she had not seen in a very long time.

Only when the Mirkwood elves had passed, and Thranduil disappeared from view, did the dwarf woman finally absorb what had happened. Her eyes widened, and the camp that had been silent was stirred. Dwalin knelt near her, checking that she was unharmed, and the other dwarves drew closer. They were staring at what she held in her now open hand. Nestled against her palm sat a vial, filled with a clear liquid. Written onto the stopper of that vial was one word, penned in Khuzdul.

‘ _Amnas’_

“What is it?” Bofur finally asked, knowing that he should recognize what he was looking at.

“Ori will know. Wait for him to return,” Dwalin said irritably. He had completed the lioness' tea at last; and glaring in the direction the elf lord had gone he offering the tin cup to Dís.

~*~

    Ori held the vial in his hand, and then gasped when his eyes finally uncrossed and he could focus.

“Ithildin!” he exclaimed.

Dís blinked, it had been so long since she had even read of the substance. It had once been used to paint the Hollin Gates. It was a memory from a time long ago; when the dwarves of the Misty Mountains and the elves of Lórien and Greenwood had been friends, and trade and relations had been less inglorious.

“It can only be seen by the reflected light of the moon or stars, and only again when the key word is spoken; or at least that is how it is supposed to be for maps and scrolls. When you paint it on walls I hear it works differently. I don't know, though, I'm not an elf,” the scholar apologized.

“What key word? Why?” Balin asked; offering a spoon full of rabbit stew to Dís, who sampled it and then nodded grimly. He handed her the bowl, but she tried to push it away before he forced her to take it; all the while watching her sternly.

“There is a word to make it glow. It is the word spoken when the stopper is placed in the vial, and it is native to only that batch,” Dís said. “Or that was how it was explained to me when I was a young dwarf. I’ve never seen it before, at least not in a vial like this.”

“We have no way to test it, but that is _probably_ what the word here does.” Ori pointed to the dwarvish runes etched into the crystal of the vial.

“Loyalty?” Dís asked, careful to avoid Khuzdul when this close to the men of Dale.

“Seems appropriate,” Dwalin grunted sarcastically, sitting down on the other side of Dís and draping his coat around her shoulders. She had been claiming that she did not feel the cold, but still she shivered. Even the stew did not seem to be warming her.

“But what does it mean?” Bofur asked from where he sat beside the fire, stirring their meal.

“It means,” Dís said quietly, “ … that we have to move on. We can’t stop, no matter how much it hurts. It’s not about us anymore, or what we’ve lost. It’s about our children, and our children’s children. The children of dwarves, elves, and men. My sons and my brothers died trying to give us back our past, so we could have a future!” Her words held all the heat of determination that Thorin’s had, not so long ago. “It’s the only way,” she continued, just before forcing herself to take another bite of stew. “Loyalty means going on no matter how badly it hurts. It means knowing there is more to the world than yourself, or just your people. It’s something we’ve all lost sight of.” She sighed then, her expression growing distant as she fell silent once more.

Balin and Bofur looked at her with a renewed respect. Not many could get up again after such a flurry of blows, nor would they still see so clearly after.

Dwalin glanced to her and nodded. Neither he, nor Balin would serve any but the true line of Durin.

Not all were content to stand under Dáin’s reign. He was blood, but distant blood. And he was no Thorin Oakenshield.

~*~

    Fíli could not comfort Kíli. The youngest Durin had always been more sensitive to pain than his stoic older brother, and when he bravely refused anything to ease it, it eventually overwhelmed him. Then he would cry inconsolably for their mother and uncle, which was heartbreaking. And adding in the fact that Thorin would still not allow his nephews to see him, the situation would quickly spiral out of control. Currently, Kíli was so depressed that he had determined that Thorin was dead (as the rumor had played out), and that Fíli was simply withholding the truth.

Amazingly enough, it would be something Fíli would do, and so the elder brother could not convince his sibling otherwise. Kíli would wail and call him a liar, and there was little he could do to persuade him that things were not as dire as they seemed. That hurt badly, but he bore it.

Worse yet was when the healers had to drug Kíli, and Fíli would hold him while he cursed and fought the sedation. The battle … it had broken something in his brother. This terrified Fíli, who had spent his entire existence trying to fix everything, and make things right. He had lived his life under sharp control so that Kíli was free to do what made him happy. Now … no one was happy. Not even with the war over, and all promises kept.

It was during one such fit, deep in the wee hours of the morning, that Fíli finally snapped.  
  
When the healers arrived to hold his sibling, and tried to help Fíli soothe him; that was when the older Durin slipped from the bed. He left the elves alone to their task, ignoring their hushed warnings. He was barely able to stand straight, but he had every intention of finding his uncle and beating some sense into him.

Kíli needed Thorin if he was ever going to get better.  
  
It pained Fíli to admit that, but what was most important was his brother's recovery. Not his own needs, nor Thorin’s needs. Kíli already had enough strikes against him. He had been too young to comprehend their father’s death; and when he was older, he had only understood that he was missing something he could never get back. He had followed Thorin like a hopeless and approval-seeking duckling, and the most he had ever received had been a gruff pat on the head. That hadn’t been enough. Not _nearly_ enough to help see him through combat so terrifying old veterans had nearly cut and run. But if Fíli could make his brother’s life better; if he could help him, or even thought there was something he could do … he would move the mountains themselves to make it so. And right now, the righteously angry sibling was going to make Thorin give Kíli the support he needed, one way or another.

~*~

    It was true that Fíli didn’t know where he was going, but he was determined. One hand held the wounds at his chest, while the other made sure he did not lose any of the loose-fitting clothing he was borrowing. That did not slow him, though. Nor did any of the curious members of the night watch he saw along the way.  
  
And in a random stroke of luck, it was the Lord of Imladris himself that finally directed Fíli to his uncle.  
  
The peredhel had stood frozen in the doorway that lead to the healer's hall; not looking half as surprised as he probably should have, given the hour. He had just checked on Thorin, and knew well what the screaming in the distance was about. As did most of the rest of Imladris. It also didn’t take much prescience to figure out what sort of mission an older brother might be on.

When Fíli gave the elf lord a determined look, in pain and beyond fear with his outrage, Elrond just pointed to one of the closed doors nearby. Then he walked away, the hint of a smile turning up the corner of his mouth.

~*~  


    Fíli didn’t open the door, he kicked it off its hinges. It hit the wall with a noise like a troll falling down a mountain, and Thorin Oakenshield came upright in bed with a hiss of pain and a grunt of surprise.

“Fíli?!” he gasped, a hand clutching at his injured chest. He was shaking.

“Don’t you ‘Fíli’ me, you thick-headed bastard,” the blond dwarf rasped, doing a surprisingly good impression of his mother whether he meant to or not.

He’d never spoken to his uncle in such a way before. Not a day in his life, and perhaps never again if his heart failed in his chest like he felt it would. But Fíli was far too angry to care if this killed him, and Thorin looked much too guilty to consider defend himself.

“Do you hear that?” the blond dwarf hissed, eyes narrowing as he limped menacing towards Thorin’s bed, pointing out into the hall.

Kíli’s broken screams were plainly audible with no door to muffle them.

Fíli’s chest was heaving with the effort of standing, and blood blossomed through white fabric when he lunged, bodily hauling Thorin upright. “That is the sound of your nephew screaming in pain. For all the times you punished me, for all the times you were hard on me, I’ve never cared for my own hurts. As long as you never made Kíli cry. But Kíli is crying, and he’s crying for you; because unlike me, you are his father. And he needs you. He thinks he has lost you because you are too cowardly to go see him. Do you remember how it felt when our father died in your arms, and you had to break the news to us? Do you remember how it felt when great-grandfather was slain before you? Do you recall the pain of grandfather wandering away, mad with grief? Because I do. I will not lose my brother to the curse that is eating us all alive, and I will not lose you.” The blond wasn’t shouting, but he might as well have been, the way Thorin was flinching.

    Truth was ugly. It was painful, and it was something that the dwarf-king had been hiding from. Thorin had failed to see his nephews as he should. He had forgotten Fíli’s quiet strength, and long suffering temper. He had forgotten Kíli’s sweet smile, and fearless but tender-hearted disposition. And he had forgotten the very thing he had promised them, and their mother.

He hung there defenseless, his mouth slightly open; and he could think of no words, nor excuses. There were no utterances in any language to make right what he had done. There was no place to hide anymore. His face was pale with fear. Fear of seeing what his careless actions had done. He hadn’t destroyed things. He had destroyed people. He had destroyed those he loved the most.

When Fíli finally dropped him back to the bed with a look of disgust; that was when Thorin finally yielded. He would bear this. There were consequences to his actions, and apologies would not do. In that, Thorin was right in his thinking. He would have to show them he had been wrong.

“Lead the way,” he finally whispered.

~*~

    Fíli put an arm under Thorin’s shoulder, staggering them both down the hallway and toward the sounds of Kíli’s cries. Thrice the dwarf lord tried to turn and flee, but each time Fíli guided him unerringly on. Neither of them could be sure what would come of their efforts; but once they reached the quarters that the two brothers shared, the healers within, were. Fíli was helped to a chair at the opposite side of the room so his re-opened injuries could be tended. And Thorin? They gestured for him to sit to the edge of the bed, ever so carefully placing Kíli in his arms.

The king's spine stiffened when they first handed him his weeping nephew. He was clearly overwhelmed, and uncertain of what to do. But the longer he cradled Kíli, the more they both began to relax; and after a time, the eldest Durin was able to respond more warmly.

In the end, anyone facing death was as frightened as a child, and what any child needed when frightened was their father.

Curling Kíli to his shoulder, Thorin tried whispering to him in Khuzdul. And when that didn't work the dwarf-king buried his face into hair that was as dark as his own, and rocked them both. Just as he had when Kíli had been an infant, and he had tried to win Dís a few hours of rest. He was an uncle, and had unwittingly become a father. He was also beginning to admit to himself how much he had missed and worried for his nephews. And while neither of them were children any longer, they had never outgrown their need for security.

Kíli’s crying began to ease at the gesture he had once known as a babe, and finally the mindless fear dissipated enough for him to whisper “Uncle?” in hopeful recognition. His tone was broken, alone, and so hurt. “I don’t know what I did, but please don’t leave me again. Please don’t leave us. I’m sorry,” he murmured.  
  
Thorin’s resolve shattered at the words, drawing a silent sob from him, too.

“I’m here, Kíli. I love you, my Sister Son. I am here,” Thorin promised. “I am sorry I made you wait. You have done no wrong, I am alive, and you are not dreaming,” he promised. “I won’t leave you. I won’t leave either of you.”

And those were the magic words. Dark, tear damp lashes fluttered against pale cheekbones; and Kíli finally slumped, allowing himself to be comforted while he sobbed in relief instead of grief. “Not dead. Not gone,” he whispered against Thorin.

 _Both of them were just children still. Both of them were so young._ Thorin berated himself, even as he did the only thing he could. He began singing, trying to ease the hurt as best he knew how.  
  
“ _Far over the Misty Mountains cold,  
To dungeons deep and caverns old,” _

Thorin’s gaze went to where Fíli sat, hunched, afraid, and in pain, but willing to endure it all for the love of his family. The exiled king encouraged him to accompany him with a nod of his head.

When Fíli’s blue eyes met Thorin’s, his tenor joined in a moment later; breathy, but gradually growing stronger.

“ _We must away ere break of day,  
To seek the pale enchanted gold._

Tears of relief streaked down the leonine dwarf’s cheeks, his own pain forgotten the instant Kíli calmed. All that mattered was that his brother was finally comforted, and their uncle was with them again.

“Come here, Fíli,” Thorin said, offering his hand out past Kíli to the eldest brother.

The elves stood back, then, letting the freshly bandaged dwarf stagger into his uncle’s arms to cry out the last week’s fear and helplessness.

~*~

    Dís paced on a cliff outside of the town of Dale. The Lonely Mountain stood tall and proud behind her, and she stared out over what range she could see. Her blue eyes studied the lake, the city, and the foothills around her. And there was something inscrutable in her expression.

She had cut her hair, and shaved her beard. She wore the clothes of a dwarf lad, and her brother’s mended armor. On each forearm she had burned four long scars with an iron from the forge. One for Fíli. One for Kíli. One for Thorin, and one for Frerin. Balin had been horrified, but Dwalin had understood. It was he who had tended the wounds, even when she claimed they hurt no more than the pain of birth or death.

Now the last of her brother’s Company milled beneath her, looking up to her. Some commiserated, some worried, and others were lost in their own sorrows. But whatever it was they were waiting for her to say or do … it was clearly important enough that they remained to hear it. Then again, they were part of her house. She was one of them. She was the tremulous heart of them. And she was leaving them.

“You are going on a journey?” Balin called up to her. She showed all the signs.

She looked down to him.

“I will return if I may,” she replied, expression growing colder by the second.

“Would you not let me follow you, Lass?” Dwalin asked, his expression hopeful.

“Following a Durin is unwise,” she responded to him. “You should know that.”

“You are one that I would follow. But if you will not let me, then you are one I would wait for,” Dwalin stated, a smirk turning up one corner of his mouth.

“Do not wait for me, Dwalin. I am not my brother,” she said, sounding distracted.

Dwalin remained undaunted, though he did fall silent.

“What will you do?” Balin asked as the quiet among the gathered dwarves grew weightier.

Dís turned to stare at him, and every hardened warrior among the Company's blood froze at the look in her eye.

“I will hunt down those who killed my family. I will destroy them, and everything they love. I will destroy them so completely that there will never again be a goblin within the reach of Erebor. They will not stay here, they will not breed here. They. Will. Pay. Never again will a woman weep for her sons, brothers, or husband because of orc or goblin-kind. Be she elf-kind, dwarf, or man.” A drop of blood fell from her palm, where her nails bit into her skin from how tightly her hands were fisted. “I swear it.”

No one argued with her.

There was no stopping a Durin once they had determined they would do something.  
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~  
  
**A/N:** Don’t worry, we’re getting to the good stuff. Just give me some time to set up the story here :D Then there will be the romance, hobbits, and glorious Durincest  <3 No, this fic is not going to be het based. I promise. But I do owe Dís some screen time for her being awesome. And no, I don’t think they are saints, but I’m not going to demonize Thranduil, or Dáin.  
Positive feedback and encouragement are appreciated <3 Thank you for reading!  
  
**Side Note:** This fiction has been previously submitted. I am re-working it, adding in the lost chapters, and then resubmitting it as I have time.

 **Disclaimer:** I would also like to add that I'm not into criticism. I'm writing this story for my own benefit. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't? No one is making you read it, and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you.  
  
**Thank you for reading!**

 **Beta Credit:** All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
**Zeta Reader:** All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A post-BoFA timeline divergent fanfiction. Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli survive the Battle of the Five Armies, but everything they know and love is changing, and Arda teeters dangerously on the brink of war.

**Chapter Three:**  
  
       Thorin Oakenshield had spent a great deal of time thinking about his past. He found he could remember every slight, every wrong, every mistake, and all of the pain. But not once had he dealt with it. Most of his life he had been under the impression that if he let his guard down, even for an instant, terrible things would happen to those that he loved. He could not relax, and he could not sit still.  
  
He couldn’t even sleep.  
  
What he hadn’t realized was that ignoring his emotions had left him too broken to help those he cared about most, and unable to let others help him at all. A king could not do everything alone, no matter what they wanted to believe. And the strain was beginning to show.  
  
A long time ago, before the old dwarf had gone mad with the sickness, Thorin’s father had told him something wise. (Which Thorin had completely disregarded at the time. Thorin was excellent at snubbing good advice.) His father had explained to him that there was no disgrace in tears; they washed the heart clean of madness, and freed the mind of the impurities of anger and fear. Of course, the old king had not listened to his own words, and his eldest son had forgotten them while lost in his own pride and pain. But here Thorin was, face-to-face with the old adage yet again; and from the lips of an elf, no less.

The exiled king had returned to his rooms after spending the morning comforting his nephews. And somehow he found himself sitting on his balcony beside Lord Elrond, drinking tea. (Elves were underhanded like that.) And Thorin was still aching, empty, and unable to cry while the Lord of Imladris repeated an elvish version of Thráin's lecture.

Neither were making eye contact, but there was an odd sort of harmony between them. Or, perhaps, it was surrender on Thorin’s part. It was difficult to say.

The dwarf had begun thinking about a future again, for what felt like the first time in ages. A future for himself, and his nephews. But no longer for his people. His service to them was done. His meanderings should have filled him with anger and pain at the loss of all he knew. Instead he felt a sort of relief.

He was thinking about a home. Imladris would take in any who asked, but Thorin knew he could never be happy here, even if the place was splendid.

He was also thinking about his heart, and that ... that was something else entirely. He was considering Bilbo Baggins.

“You think of him again, I can see it in your eyes. It lightens your spirit, and it makes your heart sing. Can you not see that within yourself?” Elrond asked, head tilted, a warm smile on his face.

“Curse my heart,” Thorin sighed, no real venom in his tone.

This made Elrond’s grin widen.

“When I first met my wife,” the elf lord said. “I thought she was the most beautiful creature in the world. Every time I saw her thereafter, my heart skipped a beat. Yet I never told her so. Not for hundreds of years. I did not think I was worthy of her affections,” he rubbed his forehead, and took a sip of tea before he continued. “But little did I know, she loved me too, and just as strongly. She was heedless of what I thought. I had needlessly spent time alone that I could have passed happily with her.”

“That is a very lovely story,” Thorin said flatly.

Elrond rolled his eyes, but the smile never left his face.

“Shall I ready a pony for you?” the peredhel asked, standing. He sensed he would make no further headway.

“I am going nowhere until my nephews are well,” Thorin replied.

Well, it wasn’t exactly a ‘no’, and Fíli and Kíli were certainly on the mend.

Elrond knew it was only a matter of time.

~*~

      Kíli sat, staring out the window. He hadn’t talked in days. His brown eyes were dull and lifeless, and even his hair had lost its luster. His hands were mindlessly stroking his forearms again. It was a gesture that had developed only recently, and seemed to be some sort of self-soothing ritual. So far, Fíli hadn’t interrupted it. But part of him wanted to. Badly.

The blond dwarf sat, backward-straddling the only chair in the room. His chin was on his arm, and he was watching Kíli where he perched at the foot of the bed. The younger dwarf was gazing at the birds outside the window. This went on for a long time until Fíli finally stood up, uncertain and hurting in some place that defied explanation. He hated to see his brother like this, so he made his way to the window, hoping to gain Kíli's attention.

The birds flew away, acknowledging Fíli’s shadow, but Kíli still wouldn’t look up at him. “Kee,” he whispered, interrupting.

Kíli didn’t even blink.

There was an odd tension brewing between them. The younger brother had rejected all touch but his uncle’s for days, leaving his older sibling aching, confused, and empty. Fíli was brimming with the fear that after all they had come through, Kíli would not survive; or worse, he wouldn’t be his brother anymore. The dwarf he loved was alienating him, and it hurt so much he wasn’t certain he could stand it …

“Kíli,” he tried again, speaking louder this time.

The youngest Durin had spent far too much time with Thorin, and the bad habits he had learned were showing. The avoidance, the fear, the stubborn silence. There was an alien kind of anger to Kíli, and Fíli was helpless in the face of it. He had tried everything that he could, and he thought he had done the right things. Yet ...

“Kee, please,” Fíli repeated, resting a hand on his brother’s to stop it from chafing at flesh. He wasn’t expecting the response that he got, though. Not in the least.

Kíli made a sound of outrage, and he glared at his brother, trying to move his hands away so he could keep up the motions that were comforting him. “Don’t touch me!” he growled, coming up off the bed with a strength that seemed foreign for one barely recovered from great wounds.

Fíli’s eyes narrowed, and his grasp tightened at Kíli’s wrist.

“No. Not until you talk to me and you tell me what I did wrong.”

Kíli pushed Fíli away violently, jerking his entire arm out of his brother’s grasp. “You’re an idiot! You don’t understand!” Kíli hissed, watching his brother wince at the shove to his still raw wounds.

“Kíli, I’m not stupid! What _is_ stupid is that I don’t know what’s wrong. Why are you angry? Tell me so I can make it right, or at least let me sit with you!” Fíli grunted, eyes watering from the push. He was trying to keep his voice down, hoping that lowering his volume would make his brother respond in kind.

It didn’t.

“You. Won’t. Understand!” Kíli ground out, chest heaving, hands clenching into fists.

“You’re right! I won’t until you tell me. How hard is it to do that?” Fíli laughed aloud from upset; and pinching the bridge of his nose the blond dwarf held back his desire to shout in return. He was starting to feel hysterical, too.

“It’s not that simple! If I tell you, you’re going to go away like everyone else. And if I don’t tell you, you’re going to go away just like everyone else. And I don’t know what to do!” Kíli finally confessed, his expression a jumble of conflicted emotions.

“Kee, I’m your brother. I’ve changed your diapers and held you while you were hurt. I’ve been there from your first archery lesson, to nearly our last breath. What can you possibly tell me that’s going to drive me away?” Fíli sighed.

Kíli bit his lip, and sounds that might have been words left him in garble that was neither Khuzdul, nor Westron. The dark haired dwarf shook his head in frustration, and then turned away, stalking back towards the window like he was going to try and jump out of it.

His brother had been unstable for so long that Fíli moved without thinking. He grabbed Kíli’s forearm, trying to put himself between his younger sibling and the window. He realized too late that the gesture had been a mistake, as it came across as controlling. He processed that error just moments before Kíli turned on him, punching him squarely in the eye.

He took the hit, but he didn’t let go. Even when Kíli brought his fist up again.

They both stood frozen like that for a time; gasping for breath, miserable, and standing on the knife’s edge of love and hate. Fíli’s eye was already swelling, and there were a few dots of blood seeping through his tunic.

That was when reality crashed back down on the youngest Durin, and all the blood drained from Kíli’s face as he comprehended what he’d done. When his knees buckled, it was Fíli who caught him, easing them both down to the floor. “I love you,” Kíli whispered brokenly.

The blond dwarf was still seeing stars from the punch, but he was determined to protect his brother.

“I love you too, Kee, you know I do,” Fíli replied, an edge of hurt to his tone.

“No, you’re not listening!” Kíli practically shouted, his upset worsening.

There was no modulating the volume of words that had been silenced for so long, and Fíli gave up trying to convince his sibling to keep his voice down. “I heard you, Kee, you love me. I know,” Fíli tried to explain again.

“No! I love you like Uncle Thorin loves Master Boggins!” Kíli finally gasped, vomiting the syllables out like they were poison to him.

Fíli blinked, but Kíli had found his voice, and the words weren’t halting anymore. They were spilling out of him like blood from a heart wound, unstoppable and inexorable.

“I love you! I want to be your mate, your husband! I want to be by your side forever, and I almost lost the chance to tell you that because I’m an idiot! I’m an idiot because I never told you, and because you followed me into a war thinking that I was loyal to you in a way I’m not! You nearly died. You nearly _died_ … and I couldn’t protect you and I couldn't _tell_ you!” Kíli was yelling again, wild eyed. His cheeks were wet with tears, and the bridge of his nose and the tops of his ears blushed hot with embarrassment and pain.

“I love you,” the younger dwarf continued once he could catch his breath again. “And because I’m selfish and I need you, that means you’ll go away! That means you’re going to die, and leave me forever; and after a few dark years I’m not going to remember your voice, or the way it felt to hug you on cold nights after a couple of pints. I’m going to forget the little, perfect … things, and then nothing is ever going to be the same, and I’ll never know why I feel like half of a person. I’ll tell myself I’m happy but I won’t be, because you’ll be lost. You’ll be gone like someone ripped my heart out, and after a while I won’t remember why it hurts, I’ll just know that the pain never stops!”

Fíli was too stunned to move. Once again, he was reminded of how damaged his younger brother was. Kíli had lost things he desperately needed while he was too young to even remember what they were, and it had left a void in him that no amount of physical accomplishment would comfort. He could only stare at his brother, and that made him bite his lip in pain. He was frozen in indecision, but Kíli …

Kíli was sobbing. He had torn himself open in front of Fíli in a way that left the blond dwarf shaken to the core. His brother’s brown eyes were wide with fear and pain, and he was doubled over by the sounds leaving him. And Fíli … was galvanized by that hurt, as well as the outpouring of words long withheld.

He understood. He’d done something similar with his uncle recently, though he’d done it for Kíli, not himself. He wondered if he could now speak up for what he wanted. If he should. Especially if it would not only set him free, but would comfort his sibling. Kíli had been brave, as he always was. Brave enough to say what he needed.

If Kíli could show his courage, Fíli could show his willing heart. Couldn’t he?

“Kee. Brother, please … slow down. Just slow down. I hear you. I see you. I feel you,” Fíli promised, reaching out to pat and then cup his sibling’s face. He was worried Kíli was going to pass out. Carefully he put his arms around him, supporting him against his broader chest while trying to decide where he should start.

The puzzle was in pieces, and he had to figure out what was sky and what was ground; but he couldn’t do that if his brother fainted. Or punched him again, but Kíli didn’t seem angry anymore. Anger was the response most dwarves had to aching pride, and it was a poor but effective way to cover fear. Fíli couldn’t hold the shove or punch against his sibling. In a way, he’d had it coming. He, too, had been silent for too long.

Not once. Not once in all their years together, had Fíli thought Kíli might feel the same as himself. And now he was holding his sibling to his shoulder, feeling him tremble in pain because he had been too weak, too fearful of what their mother or uncle might think, to speak his heart. For years this had been eating away at Kíli, the brother he loved so much; and bravely, the younger dwarf had said nothing until now.

“Please don’t go, I promise I’ll never mention it again,” Kíli whispered, misinterpreting the silence.

Fíli took a gasping breath, and finally shook his head, choosing his words carefully. “No, Kee, I listened. Now you listen, okay?”

Fíli shifted the other dwarf so that he could carefully rub his back while talking.

“Nobody is going anywhere. You, me, and Uncle are going to stick together. We’re going to take him to find his burglar when we get better, and when we go, I’m going to go as your One. I will go as your mate, your only, and you will go with me, and we will make a home for ourselves far away from here. I’ll find a place where you can go hunting every day, and no one will be scared or hungry. There won’t be any war. I’ll take a job … as a grocer, or a smith, or … anything. And if I have to, I’ll build you a home with my own two hands. Kíli, I’ve loved you forever, and I don’t plan to stop anytime soon. Can you promise to feel the same way? If you can, and you swear to stop punching me in the head, I’ll make it all better.”

There was a long quiet after Fíli’s words, and just as he was starting to grow nervous, Kíli responded.

“You’re not just saying that?” The brunette sniffed miserably, wide eyes meeting Fíli’s for the first time in days and actually connecting.

“No, I’m not ‘just saying that'. Please calm down, don’t cry. I’ve got … I’ve got something I want to give you, but you have to promise to let me talk to Uncle if he notices. Can you?” Fíli asked, his heart tripping over itself in his eagerness, in his relief. He couldn’t stop stroking Kíli’s hair any more than he could make his hands stop shaking.

“Oka … Okay,” Kíli replied, hoarse now from his emotional fit.

“Good,” Fíli said, reaching into the pocket of his borrowed elvish trousers for a comb. With shaking hands, he untangling a portion of his sibling's hair while whispering to him in Khuzdul; whispering words that were both ceremonial, and honestly meant. Then he removed one of his hair beads, and proceeded to place it at the end of the braid he had made in front of Kíli’s ear.

“So everyone will know my intent,” Fíli said.

It wasn’t that unusual that one male dwarf would love another. It was not even that unusual for brothers to be lovers. Female dwarves were scarce, and since there was no longer the slightest need for Fíli to produce blood heirs … there was nothing, and no one, to stop or even caution him against following his heart. And that was the way the blond dwarf wanted it.

In all of his life, Fíli had never been so sure of himself. He wasn’t being groomed for perfection as an heir. He was Fíli. He was an adult now, and no one could tell him otherwise. It was unknown territory, and it was frightening, but he had paid for this freedom with the scars on his body. Young, he might have been, but he was not stupid. And he would find a way to make the most of what had come to pass.

He knew this wasn’t going to be easy. But anything worth having was worth fighting for, and he’d damn near had his heart cut from his chest to protect Kíli. No one could doubt his sincerity in their relationship, either. Not even his brother. “I’m glad that you told me, and see? I’m still here,” Fíli whispered into his Kíli’s ear.

Kíli looked dazed, and his eyes were still red from tears when Fíli leaned in, claiming his first kiss.  
  
                                                                                                                                                  ~*~  
  
Kíli did not know what to do, and so he just … did. His warm, trembling lips meeting Fíli’s cool and unchapped ones. He let himself drown, and he let the fear and darkness that he had been struggling to keep at bay, go. With one kiss and a few words, Fíli had pushed away the pain and given him hope.

When the kiss broke, Kíli rested his head to Fíli’s shoulder; and he did not fight his sibling as he carried him to the bed, lying them down amongst the blankets. Fíli always found a way to take away all the hurt. And rather suddenly the youngest Durin realized just how tired he was. Holding all that fear had been exhausting, and even as Fíli kissed his nose, his brow, and the edge of his jaw … Kíli was drifting, eyes closed. He could feel the warm summer breeze on his face again, hear the bird song, and feel … hope. Weeks of the dark film of depression that had coated everything lifted in an instant; and the youngest Durin let himself fall into a healing sleep, whispering his love for his brother once more before relenting to dreams.

~*~

      Thorin finally let the door drift shut. His eyebrows had become a permanent fixture along his hairline, and he leaned against the nearest wall like he had been struck. He supposed this was what he got for spying. He had come because he had heard his nephews shouting. And admittedly he had been about to interfere, when something he could not explain had stopped him. He had frozen, then, watching through the crack in the door.

He had observed the fight, the making up, and … well, it wasn’t that unexpected. Even Dís had warned him that this could happen. He wished he could say that he was disappointed in his nephews, but he couldn’t do that, either. He was actually … relieved. This had been fated, and he was glad he hadn’t stepped in when the altercation had started.

He backed away in shock, staggering to his room amidst the curious eyes of the day guard of Imladris.  
  
Nosy things that they were.

‘I love you like Uncle Thorin loves Master Boggins!’ The words were echoing in his mind.

He did love Bilbo, didn’t he?

The exiled king settled to the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. He had loved once, or told himself he had. But the dwarf that his betrothed had treasured had died. Her brash Thorin Oakenshield had fallen on the battlefield, and a stranger had taken his place. A dwarf of noble heart and mind had replaced the princeling who once was. This version of Thorin was older and wiser, and had learned to let go of his obsessions, fear, and even some of his pride.

Thorin frowned disapprovingly.

That damned elf was right. He had been reborn, and for the first time in his life, he could choose his own priorities, just as his nephews had. He could love without it being a duty, and he could work for the joy of working, instead of survival.

Watching his young charges become independent of him gave him even more comfort. They were looking after each other now. And that meant that he, too, could really live for the first time in his life. His nephews would be all right. He had kept all of his promises to others, and now it was time to think of himself.

He had been avoiding just that, as he found it overwhelming to have a future. But now that no one was looking up to him to solve their problems, or asking him to give up what he needed for what they did; he was free. In that freedom, a strange resolve grew. His head was in his hands, but his heart was in his throat with a kind of excitement that he’d never had the option of before.

There was nothing stopping him from leaving a note for his nephews, and then going to find Bilbo Baggins. After apologizing profusely, he was going to tell the little hobbit that he loved him ... and somehow, he was going to make this horrible ache in his chest go away. He was going to carve out a fate for himself that wasn’t lonely, like his Mountain.

He stood resolutely, and without a second thought he began to pack. Injuries or no, he couldn't stay here a moment longer. The more he tarried, the greater the chance was that he would lose his burglar’s heart forever.  
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~  
  
**A/N:** And we are off to the Shire!  <3 This chapter will be beta read on Monday, which means you have any stupidity on my part to keep you company through the weekend~ All positive feedback and encouragement are appreciated <3 Thank you for reading!  
  
**Side Note:** This fiction has been previously submitted. I am re-working it, adding in the lost chapters, and then resubmitting it as I have time.

 **Disclaimer:** I would also like to add that I'm not into criticism. I'm writing this story for my own benefit. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't? No one is making you read it, and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you.

 **Beta Credit:** All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
**Zeta Reader:** All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A post-BoFA timeline divergent fanfiction. Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli survive the Battle of the Five Armies, but everything they know and love is changing, and Arda teeters dangerously on the brink of war.

**Chapter Four:**  
  
    Thorin was exhausted. The Great East Road had felt like it had gone on forever. It had taken Fifteen days to reach Bree. He had been hoping to arrive at the wayside town in a more punctual manner, but nature had not been in his favor. The weather had been violently inclement for at least one full day, and certain parts of those after. At times the driving downpours had made the hills too treacherous to ride through, and he had to stop to wait out the squalls.

Fortunately, the pony that Elrond had lent him had endured the journey admirably. Her name was Button, and he had found himself talking to her from time to time. She had been named for the small patch of white on her withers. The mark was no bigger than a waist-coat button, and was the only white on the rest of her chestnut coat. He would always miss Minty, but the company and assistance of a good pony was vital. And a wise dwarf knew a steadfast mount when he saw one.

Secretly, Thorin was grateful to Elrond, though it was not something he would admit aloud.

The elf lord had readied a mount as promised, as well as sent Thorin with provisions and a borrowed axe from Imladris' armory. The exiled king smiled nostalgically at that gesture in particular. The axe had once belonged to a great warrior among his people, and was something even Dwalin would have been proud to carry. _Dwalin_. He frowned in thought. He missed his companions more than he would like to admit.

Seeing the gables and gates of the city rise before him, the dwarf king shook himself from his rumination and pulled his hood closer to his face. It wouldn’t do to be recognized. While he was tense about being identified, it was a relief to see the civilization after all this time. He was glad he had not lost his way.  
  
~*~

    Standing in the stables of the Prancing Pony, Thorin curried Button while thinking back to a time not so long ago. He had traveled to this very city to earn some coin, though he never would have guessed what that simple act of necessity would lead to.

That winter had come early to Ered Luin, and Dís had not had enough time to put up food before the first snows. Preservation was a massive task every fall, especially with two young dwarves and a stubborn smith underfoot. It became more complex when the things normally harvested dried up, or withered beneath precipitation before they could be gathered. The others within his home had tried to help overcome the problem, hunting and gathering where they could, but they had also needed to eat. A greater population of dwarves meant Thorin's home was safer, but there was also the added burden on dwindling resources.

So, with no other choice, Thorin had come into Bree looking for work.

He had brought with him his small band of dwarves, and they, too, looked to peddle their wares for coin or trade. By chance alone, Bifur—a toy maker among the lot—had run into a wizard. A wizard that had been selling fireworks. It had been an odd turn of events, but in the end, it had launched Thorin on a downhill slide into trouble … and finding himself.

He’d also come by the companionship of a certain hobbit.

A smile turned up the corners of his mouth when the dwarf thought about his first meeting the Company’s burglar. In retrospect, it might have been a disparaging comment he had made about the hobbit servants of the town (How like the elves they looked!) that inspired Gandalf to insist upon an inexperienced halfling. Thorin was glad that he had been more ignorant in his younger days, or very little would have come about.

He also hoped he wasn’t too late.

Tipping the stable boy, he then staggered up to the inn. A pint and a bowl of stew later, he was asleep in one of the spare closets, head on his bags and saddle. There had been no room elsewhere, so he’d rented this spot for the night. It was good enough for a nobody—and dry—which was all that the dwarf really needed.  
  
~*~

    Thorin arose well before dawn. He had combed his hair, tidied his braids, neatened his beard, washed up, and put on a clean set of travel clothes. He looked as good as he possibly could, and that was important. Vanity was not a vice of his, but he was determined to look sharp while making an apology. It would be his last act as an heir of Durin. Besides, he had a hobbit to woo. Assuming such a hobbit could be convinced to not hate him for what he had done, and had not married another.

He set out at first light. Button was as excited as he was, or perhaps his nerves were catching. But it was a fine morning, and the ride was uneventful despite his mount spending the first hour of it snorting, jittering, and tossing her head.

He took a leisurely lunch in the foothills, and then passed through the eaves of the Old Forest. There he found joy in the trees and their shade, and the shape of the land. He had timed the trip so that he was beneath the outskirts of the forest canopy during the hottest point of the day. There, in the stillness, it gave him time for more introspection. He had to decide exactly what he would say to his burglar. It also gave him time to realize just how alone … alone could be.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had allowed himself to enjoy a journey. Always he had been responsible for someone else, or for families who desperately needed his protection. But having space to breathe calmed something in him, and the birdsong and warm sun had centered him by the time he reached the edge of the Shire. There he found that he was as ready as he would ever be, even if the sun was turning downward in its course in the sky.  
  
~*~

    Crossing the Brandywine Bridge at early evening had been a pleasure. The water was beautiful, and the sunset light was just-so. Flowers, farm fields, gardens, and hobbit holes stretched as far as the eye could see. Of course, there was only one hobbit Thorin intended to visit this fine night. But that didn’t stop halfling children from staring and waving, or circling Button curiously. Dwarves rarely visited the Shire, and the one time that they had there had been a stir at their arrival and departure. Hobbits were a quiet folk in comparison to Thrain’s people.

Thorin took a turn down one of the nearby lanes, a turn he remembered missing at least twice at his last meeting there. When two hobbit children ran by him, giggling and carrying a glass jar filled with fireflies, it made him smile. He could not help thinking of something that could never be, while finding himself grateful for the peace and safety of the Shire. Such virtues were sorely needed, not only for himself, but for his nephews as well. He hoped they might follow him soon.

A few hobbits looked up from their gardens, openly gaping at him where they had paused in pulling weeds. He ignored them, keeping on for the great tree in the distance with it’s gaily tied ribbons. Near that tree, there was a hobbit hill with a green door. That … that was his destination. That was the place he hoped to call home some day.  
  
~*~

   Thorin tied Button to a stretch of fencing near the front gate of Bag End. He saw no one out in the yard, but there were candles lit in the windows. Frogs and crickets called, and he took a breath to steady himself. The place did look inviting, bathed in the golden glow of sunset light. He took a short walk up the garden path, and stood before the door. While there was a bell to ring, he found he had no desire for such things. He would announce his arrival as he always had. He raised his fist.

A loud steady knock echoed from the old green wood—the mark Gandalf’s staff had made was still on the door, as if it had expediently eaten through every coat of paint attempting to cover it up—and Thorin braced himself. At first there was no answer, and then the pat of quiet, bare feet on the floor. When at last the door swung open, the dwarf-king’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t help smiling, roguish and sheepish, when a pair of familiar blue-gray eyes met his.

“I said no confounded visit—Thorin?” Bilbo nearly choked on his words.

The little hobbit was thinner than the heir of Durin had ever seen him. He had dark circles under his eyes, and he looked grief-aged and gaunt. Thorin gave him a gentle smile, toned down from the roguish one, now more worried than anything else. “It is good to see you, my friend. Would you mind if I came in?” Thorin asked.

“No. No, no visitors today, especially not ghosts!” Bilbo squeaked. “Mad, I’ve gone … right. Lobelia was right!” The halfling’s color faded to a pale gray, and he braced himself against the entryway wall ... right before he slammed the door directly in Thorin’s face. Or at least, he tried to.

Being who he was, and as prone to trouble as most of the line of Durin, Thorin was used to this sort of behavior. Especially from hobbit-kind who claimed to have little taste for adventure. He wedged his boot solidly in the door, not allowing it to close.

“Bilbo Baggins, I believe we have a great deal of things to discuss. And if you would not mind, I would rather not speak of them in front of your neighbors.” Thorin pushed the door in far enough to let himself through, and then closed it firmly after.

There was no resistance left from the home’s owner, who was leaning heavily on the wall beside him, unable to take his eyes from the dwarf.

It was when Bilbo started to stutter unintelligible sounds and shake, that the burly dwarf was able to slip an arm around his waist. Their burglar had always been prone to fainting fits when he was excited.

A heartbeat later, the hobbit went completely slack.  
  
~*~

    Bilbo had been rested sideways in his favorite chair, his furry feet propped up on an old end table to return circulation to the rest of his body. His eyes drifted back open just as Thorin pressed a mug of hot tea into his confused hands. The hobbit was still in shock.

“You _are_ dead, aren’t you?” Bilbo asked weakly, still staring in disbelief at the dwarf before him.

“Do you really think ghosts are capable of raiding your pantry, and making tea, Burglar?” Thorin asked sternly.

Bilbo took a sip of his drink, his expression pinched with thought as he considered that. “If you are a ghost, you make magnificent tea.”

Thorin shook his head, chuckling. The fireplace highlighted the silver in his dark hair, and blue eyes that were less troubled than they had been in a long time. “I am not a ghost, Bilbo Baggins. But I do have a lot of explaining and apologizing, to do,” he stated, hovering near the chair, arms crossed. “Will you hear me out?”

For a long time the hobbit blinked at Thorin, and patiently the dwarf waited out the daze.

When reality finally set in, Bilbo managed to stand. At first, each motion was slow as he tried to figure out how to put one foot in front of the other. Then he bolted toward Thorin. He barely remember to put down his teacup before he threw his arms around the dwarf’s neck, hugging him so tightly it made freshly healed wounds ache.

“Thorin!” Bilbo sobbed. He could make no further words, he just clung to Thorin like he was the last sane (or insane) thing in all of the Shire. His fingers tangled into that silvering mane, holding painfully tight as he stood on the tips of his toes. Thorin bore it patiently before finally moving them towards the halfling's favorite chair, tumbling them back into it. The hobbit was shaking like a leaf in a strong wind, and he did not want him to faint again.

“I thought you were dead! I thought you were dead! I’ve grieved for you so!” Bilbo whimpered. “How could you … how could you do this to me!” he grit out, hands tight in the fabric of Thorin’s tunic.

“I am not dead, though my injuries took time to heal. I have come to you now to tell you that I am alive, though no other can know of it. Oh, little hobbit, how I have wronged you,” Thorin whispered into Bilbo’s curls.

The halfling continued sobbing, and the wracking gasps of pain between them were highlighted by tears of relief. Bilbo then tried to hug himself even closer to Thorin within the confines of the chair, but that was still not near enough for his taste. Finally, the hobbit settled for kneeling to either side of the dwarf’s thigh, and curling over the top of his shoulder. He needed to feel Thorin's pulse against his cheek, and the beat of his heart between their chests.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream, Thorin. I’ve dreamed so many times that you were alive again … that you would come to my door. That … that … and then I would wake up, and you weren’t here!” Bilbo moaned.

“No, Bilbo, I am not a dream. This is real. I am here, and definitely not a ghost.” Thorin had never guessed at how deeply his death would effect those he cared for. He had been so selfish. He had nearly lost his nephews, and now Bilbo. And not for the first time, he was horribly ashamed. The halfling was just a slight weight against him, no more than a scrawny kitten. He was thin, and his ribs were prominent when Thorin slid a broad palm down his back.

“Oh, Bilbo,” he murmured. “When have you eaten last?”

Even during their travels, the dwarf had caught on quickly that a hobbit that did not eat was not a well creature.

“I couldn’t eat, I missed you all so much!”  
  
Bilbo’s tears were slowing, but the hobbit did not seem to be movable. So the dwarf waited out the grief while silently enjoying the touch between them. Just to see their burglar alive and … mostly well was a gift in itself. Though it would have been better if Thorin had found him married, no matter how his heart detested the thought. Especially if that marriage could have had brought him happiness and eased his grief.

What had Gandalf said, when asked why he returned? ‘Looking behind had brought him back.’ Thorin had just fully realized his own stupidity, and not a moment too soon. He and his nephews weren’t the only ones who hurt. When the rumble of Bilbo’s stomach broke the silence of their embrace, the dwarf sat him back slightly. “If you give me run of your pantry for more than tea, I can make something easily enough, and we can catch up over a cold pint. I can explain everything. That is, if you can forgive me enough to let me stay,” he said.

Bilbo’s arms tightened stubbornly.

“Thorin Oakenshield, you are not leaving this hobbit hole until you explain everything that has happened!” he squeaked, voice raw but demanding.

Thorin was in no mood to disregard his burglar’s words, either. Their closeness … he had not had comfort like this since Beorn’s long-house that night so many months ago, and he, too, was loathe to move. Bilbo’s tears were still beading along the length of his hair and soaking his shoulder, and whatever there was between them felt so very fragile. The hobbit felt fragile.

Thorin leaned in, letting the chair take their combined weight as he continued to rub Bilbo’s back, and the emaciated halfling finally began to calm; nestling closer, head heavy. Briefly, the heir thought of Fíli and Kíli. Kíli had nuzzled much like this when he had been a lad. This position was the way that the king had fallen asleep more than once, his nephews in his arms. It was tempting to give in to slumber, but Bilbo was hungry …

There was nothing but the crackle of the fire between them, and the hobbit was still unwilling to get up so that Thorin could cook them a meal. Together, they watched the color fading from the sky. And when the hobbit’s stomach growled in outright rebellion, Bilbo finally stood. He was wobbly, but looked resolute enough. “To the kitchens, then?” he queried. “I would normally not ask a guest for help, but you are not a guest,” he said, arms across his chest in mimicry of the position Thorin had taken earlier.

“Oh? Then what am I, Burglar?” Thorin asked, standing calmly and managing to look unruffled. He was trying to save the hobbit's dignity, which the other seemed to silently appreciate. Or maybe that was just the expectation of food and explanation. The Tookish side of the halfling did, at times, enjoy gossip. (The dwarf well remembered one of Bilbo’s long and rambling explanations of hobbit-kind, the Baggins family, and the halfling love of genealogy as a whole.)

“You are family. Now come along,” Bilbo said curtly, picking up a candle stand and leading the way, lighting more candles at the windows and tables as he marched through Bag End.

Thorin smiled ruefully, and then strode after him.  
  
~*~

    The meal was spread out before them. Some fresh fish, bread, and steamed vegetables graced the table, and a cake was cooling on the windowsill. Bilbo had come back to life in front of Thorin. He had bustled around his kitchen in a way he had not in some time, if the amount of dust that had gathered on things could be believed.

Thorin had washed, dusted and assisted by handing things over; and all the time he had been drinking in Bilbo. He was a sight for sore eyes indeed. The hobbit's quiet dignity, gentle humility, and comforting presence was already soothing the ache in the dwarf's heart. And by the time they sat down to the meal, two cold pints between them and two plates before each, Thorin took a moment to thank Aulë. Bilbo had not taken a mate, and he had remained … had waited. A strange emotion tightened the dwarf king's throat, but he quickly pushed it down. Bilbo needed him now. They could talk about other things later, if such a chance arose.

There was a great deal of silence to begin with, and neither of them were sure where to begin, with words or their supper; so Thorin made sure to set an example by devouring his fish. Bilbo did not fare as well at first.

For a time, the hobbit had pushed things around on his plate, but eventually he picked up speed. Soon he had cleared his two plates, and was on to his pint. Thorin had been hard pressed to keep up with him after a certain point, but that was a good sign. Enthusiasm was significantly better to see than reticence, especially from a being that lived for good food and company.

While they waited for the cake to cool so that it could be frosted, Thorin rested an elbow on the table and tilted his beer up in the surprisingly comfortable—if expectant—quiet that had continued between them. The meal had been satisfying, and Bilbo had eaten, so the dwarf felt as if he could broach the subjects he needed to. He didn’t get a chance to speak first, though.

“So, how?” Bilbo finally asked, putting his feet up on the empty chair beside him. They both startled at the sound of his small voice in the kitchen.

“Let us suffice to say that Lord Elrond is rather good at lying, which does not surprise me," Thorin began.

Bilbo scowled at that, but continued to listen, curious.  
  
~*~

    “Fíli and Kíli too?” Bilbo wheezed, leaning against the table in relief, he then downed the rest of his beer to ease the shock.

“Yes, my nephews are on the mend. I asked them to meet me here, I hope you do not mind?”

Bilbo shook his head at that. “Thorin, you are my family, the lot of you. You will most certainly not live on the streets. And the hobbits here, they would love to have a dwarven smith in residence. They would also greatly enjoy the crafts your nephews are so clever at. I would have it no other way,” the halfling said sternly.

Bilbo had to work to stay awake, looking like an overtired puppy who kept dozing off while trying to play. Thorin did not make a remark about this. But he did cut their talk short, and ended up helping a very tired hobbit to bed, settling him among his blankets and sheets. He looked small there, small, but relieved in the candlelight from the windowsill.

The halfling did not want to be alone, and neither did Thorin. It was plain on both their faces. So in silent agreement, the dwarf laid out his bedroll on the bedroom floor beside the hearth. And there he sat in the middle of his furs, smoking his pipe and watching his burglar gaze back at him drowsily.

Earlier in the evening, Button the pony had been moved to the stable at the back of Bag End, so the dwarf had little concern other than himself and Bilbo.

“Promise me?” the hobbit asked, slipping regretfully beneath the heavy quilt, one eye already closed.

“I will promise you anything within my power,” Thorin replied softly, voice full of emotion.

“Promise me you’ll be here in the morning?”

This made Thorin smile around his pipe. “Of course I will be,” he said, leaning back against his pack and blowing a smoke ring in the low light.

“Thank you,” Bilbo whispered, finally giving in to his eyelids.

Thorin began to sing, then. Quietly, peacefully.

And even in his sleep, the simple gesture made the hobbit smile contentedly.  
  
~*~

    It was around dawn that Thorin found himself with a burglar sharing his bed roll. He had been confused as to where he was at first, but when Bilbo had crawled beneath his coat and onto the sleeping fur with him, it had all come back to him. The halfling had been crying, whether from relief or a nightmare the dwarf did not know, but he tightened his arm around him anyway. And drawing him up onto his chest, he tucked him under his chin.

They had slept like this at Beorn’s, too. That memory made Thorin smile fondly. Bilbo had been frightened by the bear king and his people, and had woken the Company time and again with his night terrors. It had been Thorin who had taken responsibility for him that evening, hiding him beneath his coat and holding him just the same. Predictably, the gesture seemed to be helping once more.

Bilbo’s tears had stopped, and he was listening to Thorin’s heartbeat; lithe hands stroking over his chest as if they might learn him, or protect him from any harm. Hobbits, as the dwarf had come to understand, were very warm among their own social groups. The touching could have meant anything, but not for the first time Thorin hoped his feelings might be returned.

Try as he might, though, the exiled king was exhausted and could not stay awake. His wounds had just barely healed, and even the ride to the Shire had used up what little reserves he had left. He wanted to talk, he wanted to tell Bilbo just how much he loved him and needed him. Instead, Thorin was lulled back into the deepest sleep he had experienced in a long time.

~*~  
TBC  
~*~  
  
**A/N:** I am a very tired Mun. The beta reader will get to this sometime this week. So, for the rest of the time you can enjoy any silliness you find within ~ All positive feedback and encouragement is appreciated  <3 Thank you for reading!  
  
**Side Note:** This fiction has been previously submitted. I am re-working it, adding in the lost chapters, and then resubmitting it as I have time.

 **Disclaimer:** I would also like to add that I'm not into criticism. I'm writing this story for my own benefit. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't? No one is making you read it, and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you.

 **Beta Credit:** All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
**Zeta Reader:** All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A post-BoFA timeline divergent fanfiction. Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli survive the Battle of the Five Armies, but everything they know and love is changing, and Arda teeters dangerously on the brink of war.

**Chapter Five:**   
  
    When Thorin woke again, the skies outside of Bilbo’s hobbit-hole window were the deepest of blues, as they were wont to be just before dawn in the Shire. The exhausted halfling lay against his chest; warm, sleepy, and distant. It had probably been his gaze that had roused the dwarf once more, but Thorin didn’t know how to meet those fathomless gray eyes. And part of him was afraid to. So he didn't.

Outside the lead glass panes there was the faintest hint of silvery stars, though there wouldn’t be for long as dawn was well on its way. The two companions lay nestled side by side beneath Thorin’s sleeping furs, the silence between them neutral and oddly safe.

The fire had burned down to glowing embers, and the dwarf found himself drifting back to times long gone. He tried to resist the memories, but they were as real and present as the scars on his chest. He could never escape his past, that much was obvious. But embracing it? That idea was something new to him. He didn’t know how to go about much of anything—or what to say. So he began to stroke thick fingers through Bilbo's tawny hair. It was a gesture that he felt safe making, and one that he was surprised to find the hobbit leaned into just as eagerly.  
  
And luckily for him, Bilbo was as determined to never let Thorin slip away from him again as the dwarf was confused. “A copper for your thoughts?” the halfling asked, breaking the stillness. His voice seemed small in the pre-dawn light, especially as he rolled onto his side to face the dwarf more fully.

“If that is the pay, it seems we dwarves do not do as much thinking as we should. We could be significantly richer,” Thorin quipped. The statement wasn't an avoidance, yet it was. He was lucky to have this much, and luckier that his burglar seemed to still want him. But he was worried that if he shared his burdens, it might be too much for the little hobbit.

“Thorin, honestly, what were you thinking? I saw death cross your face,” Bilbo insisted.

Thorin blinked and raised his eyebrows in surprise. Few would persist like this; even his nephews wouldn’t. But Bilbo had not pulled away, and the halfling didn't look put off by the thought of sharing the dwarf's pain. Yet the king wasn't certain he could join in that sentiment, not even when when he had been _asked_ to share. He had not bared his heart to another before; it had never been an option, and there were certain unsavory things he had locked away deep inside. A great deal of which were far too dark to see the light of day. There was still so much Thorin did not understand about himself, things he had never had the time to face or feel … how could he possibly subject Bilbo to that?

Deep down, the exiled king had always feared the day someone would come along who cared enough to scale the walls around his heart—without attempting to tear them down—and that time was nigh. That was why he had fought his love for Bilbo so fiercely. He was frightened that what he needed might actually be given to him ... because that would mean he would have to heal, and to change.  
  
The realization was staggering.  
  
Thorin had always been alone, daring someone to be brave enough to make the climb. Waiting for them to prove that they could see him, flaws and all, while still wanting him and loving him. He had needed them to demonstrate that they were strong enough to face what he kept caged within.

And now that he was tentatively sure he had just such a thing, he had no idea what to do with the gift.  
  
“I …” he began to reply, and then halted.

“Oh don’t look that way. I’ve seen enough, and I might be faint of body but I’m certainly not faint of heart. I handled thirteen of Durin’s folk—which is far worse than a dozen wars, and you cannot convince me otherwise!” Bilbo exclaimed, not about to be dissuaded.

When at last Thorin looked into the hobbit's eyes, they were as hard and determined as flint. And the dwarf knew that he couldn't deny Bilbo this. The truth. All of it.  
  
“I was thinking about scars,” he finally admitted, rolling onto his side to face his burglar.  
  
Those words should have been enough to assuage curiosity, but Thorin had forgotten that halflings were nothing _but_ inquisitive. He had merely piqued a powerful appetite.

“Of what sort?” Bilbo pried, not above rudeness when worried. He was a worldly enough creature to know that not all wounds were physical.

Thorin sighed, looking rueful without meaning to. He knew his burglar wouldn’t let him shy away now. And that left him struggling to put thoughts into words in ways that would not be hurtful or assumptive. It was a skill set he was working on refining, and it did not come easily.

What worried him most went beyond physical intimacy, thought that was a consideration. He was frightened of the damage that had been done to hearts, and of his actions and the words that he had said. He had failed those who believed in him and needed him the most, and he had no guarantee that he would not continue to.

“I was thinking that you are unscathed despite all we have been through, still perfect, and I do not wish to bring further ill fate upon you. Yet, here I am again. Even in death I could not let you go. The more things change, the more things stay the same. Just like me. I’ve hurt you before. I am selfish. What if I hurt you again? I know well the weakness of character and ruin that follow me.” Of course he was talking about the madness. Of his own failings. He was gravely aware that he should have walked away and chosen a life of exile. That he should have left Bilbo to grieve him and move on. Or at least that was what he had thought at first.

Considering the state he had found the hobbit in, he could not help but think that a 'right' decision might not always be the best course. And as much as it irked Thorin, Elrond had been correct. It had been best to let Bilbo make his own decisions regarding the matter of their hearts. They needed each other, as frightening as that was for Thorin to consider.

“The only thing that follows you are your nephews, and while they might be unholy terrors when released upon my pottery collection, they are far from leaving anything close to a scar,” Bilbo teased in the following silence, trying to lighten the mood. “And I can certainly make up my own mind on what I do, and do not want!” he continued more stubbornly.

Thorin was caught between a smirk and a frown in reply, the seriousness in his heart like a physical pain as he kept trying to make his point. “None of us are the same, Bilbo. My nephews are so far behind because Kíli refuses to take up his bow or leave the room he resides in. I … I have my limitations too,” he caught himself, and frowned. Was he now trying to warn Bilbo off after being so desperate to win him back? Sometimes he did not understand himself.

The hobbit listened with a frown, nodding slowly; his fingers boldly twining into Thorin's hair in return.“Do you really think I don't know what I want? That I am blinded by love? All of us have changed, Thorin. Gandalf never promised we wouldn’t. Perhaps we have some more scars, but aren’t those just like a map in a great story book? A story of who we are and where we have been? Growing is not without pain. Love is not without loss.” Those gray eyes were boring into Thorin’s cerulean, and they were still not accepting ‘no’ or 'I have too many crippling self-doubts to be good for you' as an answer. “Thorin, you had a sickness, we all get sick with one thing or another. It isn’t defeat. You just have to work to take better care of yourself so that it doesn’t happen again. Once we heal we have scars that remain, that’s true. But it doesn’t mean you’ve lost, rather, it means you’ve won and you've proof of it. You might be dead to the rest of the world, but you are alive to me. I shan’t lose the opportunity to be with you again.”

That made Thorin blink.  
  
“You love me?”  
  
“I've said it at least twice now, you dolt!” Bilbo snapped, but there was such love and relief in his eyes.  
  
“But you understand that ...”  
  
“I understand more than you think, Thorin. I know that dwarves take one love. I know that you were engaged before. Balin told me. I know that. I accept that I may always be fighting an uphill battle for your heart, and your cause. But I don't care. Don't you see? I lost the opportunity to tell you that I loved you. I lost it, and the pain of words unsaid is far worse than if you had rejected me. But it is all so clear now. You needed me. You need me. I need you. We have always _needed_ each other and if one of us has to be strong enough to stand up and say it, then I will. I love you. I love you, Thorin Oakenshield. Whether you were born a simple smith or a great king, I would love you. I was made for you, for this first and last adventure. Please let me in.”  
  
Thorin froze mid-stroke of Bilbo's hair, that broad hand coming up to cup the hobbit's jaw. For a long time he took silent measure of the being before him. What he saw through a sheen of unshed tears took his breath away. No fear, a willing heart, a noble soul, and love wider and deeper than the oceans. And he knew then that any decision between them had been made a long time ago. That there was nothing left for him but this. The thing he had always needed. The very thing he had been running from and to.  
  
His grandfather had warned him that a dwarf-lord loved fiercely and possessively … and that when it was true, the passion he felt was hotter than the heart of the forge. He had warned him that when he came to know love, that it would come with it a blind devotion stronger than any magic, stronger than any force within Arda … even stronger than pride. And that it would persist beyond death, like Durin's love for his people.  
  
It had not been warning enough.  
  
Pressing his forehead to the hobbit's in reply, Thorin rumbled an ardent affirmative; and Bilbo did not pull away. Instead the burglar leaned closer, and boldness filled the dwarf-king. His.

Bilbo was his, and this was his answer to him.

Carefully he brushed their noses together, and when the halfling gasped, nuzzling up against him in return ... he slowly tilted his head until their lips met. This was the dwarf's irrevocable 'forever'. He loved Bilbo Baggins. And he would make it right. He would even face the darkness inside himself if it meant he would always have his hobbit, just like this.

~*~

    “Kíli, you have to come out from under there,” Fíli said with a chuckle.

They had been working up to getting the skittish dwarf to touch his bow again. If he held it for a few minutes, then he would be offered his meal. They were all hoping, including Kíli, that this new tactic would help.

So far it had only lead to anxiety attacks, and to hiding under the bed the two dwarves had shared every night for the last week.

“We need you to get well so we can follow after Uncle, you know how much trouble he gets into without us!” Fíli exclaimed, still trying to fish Kíli out from under the bed by offering out a bite of elvish cake.

And Kíli’s dark and resentful glare was the only response he got.

The problem was that the youngest Durin's episodes tangled with anger as well as fear, and it was hard for Fíli to not take it personally when Kíli lashed out.

“Again?” Lindir asked, peering through the opened bedroom door to find Fíli … seemingly talking to the space beneath his bed, offering out a bite of cake on a fork.

“It would be funny if he wasn't so angry,” Fíli grunted, setting the fork aside in frustration.

He knew that his brother wasn’t aware of what he was doing during these times of panic.

Lindir sighed, and wearily let himself into the room to kneel beside Fíli. After a moment of silent deliberation, the minstrel offered his hand out to the space under the bed; resigning himself to the fact that he would most likely be bitten. Crooning softly in Sindarin, he then leaned in further until he could flatten himself to fit into the small space beneath the frame.

It was like trying to soothe an unruly cat.

The elf had been graced with long arms, though, and despite a wince he was eventually able to get a firm grasp on an angry Kíli. “Help me!” Lindir gasped, encouraging Fíli to leap back into the fray.

What followed was a great deal of tussling and swearing, but eventually the brunet dwarf was cradled between his companions; still shaken, but calming. And with Lindir’s soothing words and Fíli’s familiar touch, Kíli was soon back to himself.  
  
And was morbidly embarrassed, as he always was.  
  
“I didn’t mean to,” Kíli whispered roughly.  
  
“We know, Master Dwarf,” Lindir murmured. “Rest for now, the floor is fine, no need to stand. We are already here anyway.”

When Kíli finally stopped shivering and slid back down to the cool marble, he obediently lay his head in Fíli's lap, giving his companions time to gather themselves. And as they all collectively caught their breath, the singer watched the brothers' fear fade to exhaustion and comfort. He could not help smiling as Fíli touched Kíli's face, and stroked his hair. The way the two had bonded in the last week … it was stunningly good luck. Their injuries had healed so much faster, and already their strength was returning.

Now if only they could decrease incidents like these …

Lindir had an idea, then, while Kíli was somewhat relaxed. The bow in question still rested atop the bed, and this time it was the elf who reached for it and pulled it close. Kíli tensed, but Lindir shook his head as he laid it across the young dwarf's chest. Combining the two brothers' hands before Kíli had time to panic again, he moved them jointly over the dark wood of the weapon.

“Together,” he said quietly. Sometimes this worked with unruly horses, or so he had heard. The combined touch of someone trusted with something forgotten, fearsome, or unknown.

At first Kíli tried to pull his hand away, but Fíli had caught on quickly enough. Carefully, the blond dwarf began to rub his thumb over his brother's. This forced a caress against the bow. And when that happened … the youngest Durin did not show signs of panic as before, his heartbeat staying slow at the pulse point in his neck.

“This is not your enemy, this bow has been your friend through terrible adversity, and it has protected you and kept those you love safe,” Lindir murmured, hands lightly stroking down Kíli’s forearm until the tension left. “Your enemy is the fear that more bad things will happen, but that is not to be. You have survived, those you love live still, and the war is done … all will be well. And you will become a great hunter once again, I know it. Elrohir and Elladan have been asking if you would join them sometime, and that is quite an honor … Of course, my Lord Elrond has asked them not to speak of such things until you felt more well, but I thought that perhaps, the sooner you heard of it the better …”

Kíli brightened at the news, his eyes wide, the hand against the bow following Fíli’s. He was exploring the surface as if it was a new thing. And maybe it was. Kíli was young, and perhaps he had only just developed a true awareness of the weapon.

“ … and you must name your bow, I am surprised you have not yet,” Lindir continued conversationally.

He did not mind comforting Kíli. Even if it had started off as an order; tending to the two brothers had become a labor of respect despite Lindir's unhappiness with Thorin's Company as a whole. Fíli and Kíli had been less entrenched in their mistrust of elves, and had grown to love the Last Homely House. And those within it, them.

Kíli's carving skills were second to none, and Fíli had fit in well down at the forges; both dwarves being eager to learn from the elven craftsmen hadn’t hurt anything, either. Elves found curiosity flattering.

It had been some time since Imladris had entertained younger dwarves, and Lindir lamented that those that had visited in the past had been more set in their ways. For Fíli and Kíli had become a delight for the house to aid and entertain. And what never ceased to amaze the minstrel was how the two brothers never gave up, no matter the odds.

His musings were interrupted, though, when Kíli finally sat up; letting Fíli cradle him for a time before he leaned into him for a reassuring embrace. The brunet dwarf was still holding his bow, and he was no longer shaking.

“I think … I think I should do that … and practice,” Kíli belatedly replied, looking around for his quiver.

“I would imagine that could be arranged, Master Dwarf,” Lindir said, hope leaping in his breast.

Perhaps the bite on his arm had been worth it after all.

~*~

    “I think you would do well if you tried physical healing,” Elrond said, one hand on his hip as he looked out over the practice grounds.

Lindir stood beside him, steady, a calming presence.

“ … And I owe you, for taking the time to help, Melethen. I know I keep you busy enough as it is,” the elf lord continued.

The minstrel bowed slightly, a hand over his heart even though he did not speak in reply. Elrond noted this, but he was busy watching Kíli slowly working through the motions of drawing back. The younger dwarf was trembling with muscles that had atrophied in his recovery, but his body had not forgotten what to do.

The arrow still hit the target, and the older brother cheered for that.

“Has he named his weapon yet?” Elrond broke the stillness between himself and his attendant, all the while watching over his patient.

“ _*Akh’ Aegis,_ ” Lindir intoned with the slightest of smiles, his hand touching the ring on his finger as he was wont to do when thinking about his relationship with the peredhel.

“That is a good name,” Elrond said. “It is best he not forget such things. It is easy to lose one’s purpose when times are hard.”

“That is his worst fear, that he will not be able to protect those he loves. Now he has faced it, and he can grow stronger,” Lindir said thoughtfully. “How soon will they leave us, do you think?”

Elrond smiled at the hint of regret in the minstrel’s expression. Lindir had grown fond of the dwarves, it seemed. Then again, the singer could well relate to them. It was not all that long ago that he had faced the very same sort nightmare the two brothers had.  
  
“That remains to be seen,” the peredhel replied. “But they will stay a little while longer.”  
  
And that was answer enough for Lindir.

~*~  
TBC  
~*~  
  
***** _Duty of Protection_  
  
**A/N:** I am _still_ a very tired Mun. The beta reader will get to this sometime next week. So, for 'time indeterminate' you can enjoy any silliness you find within ~ All positive feedback and encouragement is appreciated  <3 Thank you for reading!  
  
**Side Note:** This fiction has been previously submitted. I am re-working it, adding in the lost chapters, and then resubmitting it as I have time.

 **Disclaimer:** I would also like to add that I'm not into criticism. I'm writing this story for my own benefit. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't? No one is making you read it, and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you.

 **Beta Credit:** All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
**Zeta Reader:** All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A post-BoFA timeline divergent fanfiction. Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli survive the Battle of the Five Armies, but everything they know and love is changing, and Arda teeters dangerously on the brink of war.

**Chapter Six:**  
  
       Thorin drowsily opened his eyes to meet worried gray. Bilbo's breath was warm against his face, and they were so close they could have kissed again. Alive. He saw his own gaze reflected in the halfling’s, and he looked as surprised to still draw breath as the hobbit did that he had stayed. They had both fallen asleep after their last discussion, exhausted by the raw emotion of their admissions, and were twined so near it would have been impossible to slip a sheet of parchment between them.

The sun had risen while they dozed, and its heat surrounded them where they lay tangled in panes of golden light. A warm hand was moving boldly beneath Thorin's tunic, and the dwarf belatedly realized that was the sensation that had woken him. The hobbit's touch was tracing over the deep scars on his chest, his expression concerned.  
  
“Show me?” Bilbo asked.  
  
Thorin wasn't afraid any longer, not like he had been, so he allowed small hands to help him ease his tunic off over his head. And when the hobbit tossed the offending garment to one side, he found he did not care where it went to—only that they could touch with less inhibition. And he should have been nervous to be bare like this, but there was something natural and right about letting his burglar see who he really was, for better or for worse.  
  
There was trust.  
  
He could not stop watching the halfling's face as quill-calloused hands took in the changes to a body they had scarcely known before. The king had been about to say something— he knew not what— when curious touches became more than that, and a broad but small palm came to rest in the center of his chest. The hobbit's fingers were moving teasingly, or more accurately, like Bilbo were painting or inking a map. He was seeing something Thorin could not.  
  
The contrast between now and their previous two meetings was stark, and far too easily the dwarf drifted back to the memories of their second to last parting.  
  
Thorin had hated Bilbo so. The madness had seized him and twisted his mind, and he had disowned the burglar and thrown him down on the ramparts of Erebor instead of tossing him to his death. Until now the dwarf had not understood what had stopped him from killing the halfling. It hadn't been his nephews. It hadn't been his father's mistakes, or even Ori's small and pleading voice.  
  
It had been this. This clarity between himself and the hobbit. This something that reached through all the things that were clouded, through the tempest of pain and death in their lives, and plucked out the truth.  
  
Hobbit-sense, Gandalf had called it.  
  
The exiled king tried again to speak, but he was still seeing Bilbo as he had that dark night. The night he had learned of what the halfling had done. The night he had nearly lost everything he loved again, and over a damned stone! A second stroke of the hobbit's hand finally forced the troublesome recollection away, but the face above Thorin stayed the same. Unchanging, and as steady as Bilbo himself. The Company burglar, Master Baggins. The halfling that the exiled Durin both loved and admired. There might have been sadness touching that gentle countenance now. But not fear. Never again would there be fear. Thorin vowed it.  
  
The distracting caress traveled, teasing over a scarred nipple; and when it drew a rumble of surprise from Thorin the hobbit moved up over him, straddling him and pressing him back down to the bed roll.  
  
“Bilbo … I …” Thorin could still see himself reflected in gray, and saw the untamed hunger in his own eyes as well as the regret. Each breath he took felt like half of an apology.  
  
“I forgive you, Thorin,” Bilbo whispered, his touch a pardon.  
  
“I … I forgot who I was,” the dwarf gasped out as the hobbit's hands moved as one, massaging over sensitive sides and ribs while silencing excuses.  
  
“I know,” Bilbo replied.  
  
There was a lightness to the halfling, an understanding and ease that always left Thorin awed; and the dwarf could not help the doubts that overtook him yet again. It was hard to not compare the present to the past. To the memories in which Bilbo had wept and shook beneath a blanket while Fíli and Kíli tried to dissuade their uncle from harrying the little hobbit further.  
  
The sickness of the dwarf's mind had twisted him, and he had blamed their burglar for the failures the Company had experienced. Even loyal Ori had finally been forced to point out that Thorin had been the one in breach of contract. After that, all logical thought had died for Durin's heir. The dragon sickness had taken him completely, and the madness thereafter—the screams of his nephews and the roar of dying goblins—the horrors of war and blood; they were etched far off in some part of his soul, and in a way he could neither erase nor fully recall.  
  
When he had finally woken from his insanity, Bilbo's hand had been on his, comforting his injuries. It was proof that no matter how he pushed him away … his faithful hobbit always returned. Even in the face of death and failure.  
  
“Let it go,” Bilbo whispered, pulling him back to the present yet again, and this time his hips gave a twitch.  
  
The friction against Thorin made him arch his back in pleasure. The dwarf was already half-heartedly hard from sleep, and he wasn't all that surprised to find the halfling much the same. “I was wrong, Bilbo,” Thorin rasped in response, somehow trying to explain to the hobbit that he should be angry and hurt. That he should be anything but willing, forgiving, and desiring!  
  
“Do you know, Thorin, what I learned from my stay with the elves?” Bilbo asked, hands sliding upwards and cupping the dwarf's face so that he could not look away. The brutal honesty in his expression made the king gasp aloud again. “I came to understand what true grace really means. So, show me? Show me where you hurt, show me your sorrow. Show me all of you; and I will give you all I have, and everything I would never have become without you.”  
  
Thorin couldn't look away. Even when Bilbo let go of his jaw to ease his sleep shirt off, baring pale skin, sinewy muscle ... and far too visible ribs. The hobbit had lost much of his roundness, and was still hard from the lean times of their travels. Yet, he was beautiful. Hurting but beautiful. (Though the dwarf would have preferred to see a healthy paunch return to the halfling's belly. )  
  
“And do you know what I learned from you, Thorin?” the burglar continued, startling him from his observations.  
  
“W...what?” Thorin finally rasped out in reply, voice low as he licked his lips nervously, struggling to rein in the reaction of his heart and body.  
  
“I learned courage.”  
  
Then Bilbo's mouth was on his, and Thorin was kissing him deeply in return. The dwarf's response was slow at the start, but gained fervor with every heartbeat. It was as if it was finally occurring to the heir that he could be forgiven; and even more importantly, that he could begin to forgive himself and the things that had been done to him.  
  
That relief was still echoing through him when Bilbo's tongue slipped inside to tangle with his own, and when it did, Thorin gave up holding back his desire. The sun was hot through the heavy glass windows, turning the hobbit ethereal in the light where he sat astride him. And not for the first time, the dwarf saw the fully beauty of the halfling, and his hunger for him suddenly seemed as natural as breathing instead of something to feel guilty for. When they broke for air, Thorin was shaking, and Bilbo was fearlessly rocking against the hardness he found answering his.  
  
Clothing, they were still wearing too much clothing! Thorin's breeches were now so tight that he thought he might weep for the need of skin on skin. “Are you certain? he asked, stifling a moan with an answering arch of his own hips. When all he received in reply was a serious nod, the dwarf finally dared to undo the button of the hobbit's trousers.  
  
It took some careful work with legs and feet, but trousers were eventually shed, and soon enough the two lovers were completely naked. Then it was Thorin's turn to explore. Rolling them onto their sides in the soft furs—and making the halfling squeak in surprise at being unseated—the heir of Durin's hands found scars along that soft, pale skin. Some that he knew the origin of, and others that were a mystery. Bilbo did not allow him to focus on that for long, though. A warm hand cupped the side of the dwarf's face, bringing their mouths together again.  
  
“I cannot take back what I will give you, and what you offer to me, you cannot, either,” Thorin murmured when their lips parted. The very timbre of his tone making the hobbit shiver.  
  
“I would never ask you to, and I would never want to,” Bilbo admitted quietly. They would be one. The halfling understood. Dwarves mated for life, and hobbits were unendingly passionate and devoted to their families. Bilbo also knew what he would do now, and the consequences thereof. He could not have cared less. Not for propriety, not for being a gentlehobbit, nor even for being the master of Bag End.  
  
He had slept among the snows of the mountains. He had walked in the rain and cold, and felt the heat of the summer sun against bare skin. He had lived in a way that he had never experienced before, and he had laughed with elves beneath starry skies. He had flown with the eagles, and now he never wanted to roost for long. A home was good. But he could not live without the buffet of cool wind tangling through his hair, nor the smell of the deep forests.  
  
He could never go back to who he had been before, and he didn't want to.  
  
When he thought Thorin dead, he had lost the stars from his sky, and even the feel of the spring breeze against his face. His world had been drained of its color, its taste. But now he was clinging to the other, taking great gasping breaths of the wilderness, mountains, and … life that seemed to cling to the dwarf. He arched his hips again, feeling the shape and sensation of a body that was so much different than his.  
  
And perfect that way.  
  
“Thorin … please?” Bilbo asked, not caring if it was fast, or if it hurt. He just wanted them to be one.  
  
Thorin shushed him, his strong hand sliding down the hobbit's back to cup his backside and pull them even closer. It increased the pressure and friction between them, but not unpleasantly so. Bilbo moaned out, the sound fluttering and needy; and he watched the proud smile that crossed the dwarf's face when he realized he was pleasing his partner, even in the smallest of gestures.  
  
“Have we oil?” Thorin asked before he leaned closer to kiss Bilbo's cheek. From there, smaller kisses traveled downwards until they reached the column of the hobbit's pale neck.  
  
Bilbo was distracted, but somehow he managed to locate a phial of hand oil from his bedside stand as Thorin arched against him rhythmically. Each motion was teasing him, but regardless of the diversion the shuddering hobbit finally fumbled the container open. His hands were shaking in desperation as they captured his dwarf, slicking him down. Thorin was thick, proud, and slightly curved; and he was a hot weight in Bilbo's hand, pulsing at the slightest brush of fingers. The halfling knew that this was trust allotted to none before him, and it humbled him.  
  
A strong hand closed over Bilbo's, then, taking some charge and letting Thorin thrust into that small palm with a growl. It gave the hobbit a taste of what was to come, and he was so distracted that he did not notice when the vial disappeared from his possession. He did notice when a thick finger began to stroke something warm and slick between his cheeks, lifting him carefully up with his thumb to massage ... there.  
  
The halfling looked up to his lover, a sigh of relief leaving him. The touch was surprisingly welcome and good, and already he felt his body beginning to yield to that questing fingertip. It was perfect, yet he wanted more.  
  
Giving the dwarf an encouraging smile, he leaned up to kiss him, deep and hot as that finger eased inside, and he groaned. Thorin was gentle, but he was also firm, and already he was teasing his way deeper, small thrusts of the digit leaving the hobbit no doubt of how it would be to be filled. The ministration went on for a while, but it was also all the time they had for preparation. The urgency between them was too great.  
  
Soon that finger was sliding out, replaced by something bigger, and Thorin drew a lean calf and furry foot over his hip. The position aligned them in a way that allowed Bilbo to cling close, and left the halfling hot and hard against the dwarf's belly despite his nerves.  
  
“Let me,” Thorin whispered.  
  
And Bilbo did.

There was no time for questions, or fear. There was suddenly aching, burning pain, and a fullness like the hobbit could never have imagined. At first it felt like he might be torn in two; but then the insistent press of powerfully muscled thighs and the slickness between them combined to let Thorin in … and everything eased. The king made a brief adjustment to the position of the halfling's leg and hip, and then his mate, his One, was fully seated with a long slow thrust. Bilbo's eyes were damp at the corners with tears, he ached, burned, and stung—but his hand was fisted commandingly into Thorin's hair. “Don't stop,” he gasped.  
  
“Still, be still for a moment,” The dwarf whispered in reply, the ghost of his breath on the hobbit's sensitive ear making the hair stand on end along Bilbo's arms. “You're too tense.”  
  
Bilbo forced himself to breathe, to tuck his face into the hollow of Thorin's throat and let him lead. The pain was easing, and the sensation of being one made him shudder.  
  
Thorin was making sounds low in his throat, his expression one of concentrated pleasure, and perhaps a bit of pain. When Bilbo relaxed, though, and he could move, the utterances became rumbles low in his chest. His touch was both reverent and possessive as he began to thrust. First one slow motion of his hips. Out, almost completely, and then slowly back into the welcoming heat of the halfling's body. This drew a cry from the hobbit beneath him, and he adjusted the position again, knowing there was a place …  
  
And he was certain when he found it.  
  
Bilbo's expression eventually became one of awe, the tears gone as he tilted his head back, letting Thorin move into him. The hobbit was moaning frantically with each thrust and kiss; his hands scrambling for purchase against sweat damp muscle and tangles of dark hair as his tongue warred with his dwarf's.  
  
Thorin was no longer alone and the emptiness inside of him was gone. The king knew they were now one before the Maker, before Aulë, the ancient Halls … and most importantly they were one of spirit. There was everything right and nothing wrong with this thing between them. This love. It was more than that. It was everything.

There was a hazy veil of pleasure trailing across his eyes, and he was drowning in Bilbo, sunlight, and the softness of the fur around and beneath them. He was entangled in the innocence of the Shire, and the quiet assurance of the hobbit's love. He was laid bare, and when his burglar grew bold enough to move back against him, to meet his thrusts, he was lost. He only knew pleasure; pleasure, and heat, and their racing hearts.

It was Bilbo who came first, the stroke of hard muscles against his need had tipped him over the edge, and his blunt fingernails dug into the top of the dwarf's shoulders as he cried out his completion into the silence of the morning.

And when those teasing muscles finally milked his own completion from him, Thorin growled out in triumph before he buried a sob into his hobbit's hair. All he had to give. All the hurt, pain, and loss were gone, and a lightness took their place as he shuddered to a stop.

Safety pushed away fear, and for the first time in ages, the king in exile felt like he was home again.  
  
~*~

      Dís was heaving for air. Blood ran down her shoulder from the bite of black steel, but she remained the victor. A stunned ranger was sitting on a rock next to her, his shoulders slumped. She paid him little mind as her blue eyes searched the valley for motion.  
  
“You are a fool, dwarf-woman,” he said, finally giving up on the scene he had come upon, and pulled out his pipe. His words were far from insulting, though. She might even have found him companionable if she were willing to give him the chance.  
  
“Aye,” Dís said darkly. “I am that. But I am a fool with nothing left to lose.”  
  
And a fool both hopeful and troubled by what a goblin had told her.  
  
Her palm came up to stanch the flow of blood, and already she ached. Not from combat, but to spill more black blood. Ten orcs lay dead, a dozen more goblins interspersed between them. A few of the disgusting creatures bore the ranger’s arrows. With or without his help, she would not have died this day. But she was appreciative regardless. The enemy of her enemy was her friend until proven otherwise.  
  
“Have you any healer's herbs?” she asked.  
  
“For you? Anything,” the Dunadan said. “ … but would you allow a simple ranger one honest answer in return?”  
  
She seemed to consider that heavily. No matter what she did, there was a bearing to her, and she knew that it was impossible to miss. Especially since rangers were exceptionally perceptive. She also doubted this ranger was so simple. One honest answer was a small price to pay for aid, though. Especially when she knew how precious medicine was out in the wilds.  
  
“For a Man of the North, anything,” she finally replied, sinking to the rocks beside him.  
  
He offered her his pipe to have a draw. She took it as he turned to rummage through his pack, and when he straightened back up, he gave her a pouch of herbs. She blew a lazy smoke ring before she accepted the satchel from him with a nod of thanks, handing him back his pipe.  
  
“You have no fear. A wild heart. You fight like the most dangerous of men, and those are the sort which nothing holds sway over any longer. What did they take from you?” he asked her.  
  
There was a very long pause where Dís' eyes narrowed, debating her reply.  
  
“Everything,” she sighed honestly, expression unreadable.  
  
The Dunadan nodded then. That answered every other question he might have had. He had found the last of Durin's folk. He had found the wild dwarf woman who had been slaughtering entire nests of goblins and rogue hunting packs of orcs.  
  
He did not push to know more than that.  
  
A woman's reasons were her own as surely as any man's.  
  
~*~

      The sweat had cooled between them, and for the longest time the hobbit and dwarf lay entwined, pressed forehead to forehead. Bilbo was going to be sore, and Thorin was as well. The dwarf was not fully recovered from his injuries, and he had used muscles he did not even know he had.  
  
When at last they did have to part—thanks to hunger and thirst— Thorin had to use a handkerchief from the hobbit's bedside stand to stem the flow of his seed from his mate. At that, he could not help giving him an contrite look. His lover hurt, and Thorin was certain of that even if the halfling had said nothing of it. For he knew he was not small and this had been Bilbo's first time. His as well for that matter, but … perhaps they could have moved more slowly.  
  
“A bath?” he offered apologetically.  
  
Bilbo nodded, expression still lost and dreamy despite his discomfort. He had been busily tracing his fingers through Thorin's hair, the gesture meant to soothe the both of them. The king hated to stop the motion, but they could not stay like this forever.  
  
Eventually, Thorin made an executive decision and stood from the furs; scooping Bilbo into his arms he carried him bridal style into the bathroom. Stealing a kiss before he set the hobbit carefully down on the rug beside the tub; he started the fire that would warm the bath. Running water was something that the Shire mercifully had plenty of, and they both needed it. Perhaps, though, after a wash and a hot meal, they could go back to bed for a few more hours. The dwarf did not want to be separated from his One. Not just yet. They had already spent far too much time apart.  
  
The rest of the world could attend to itself for a while.  
  
~*~

      Kíli sat looking out over the falls of Imladris, bow across his lap. Elrohir was watching him, but the dwarf did not look up. “They move again, in the mountains. As if something is stirring them,” the elf said. The orcs had been coming far closer to Imladris than the rangers—or Elrond's sons—much cared for.  
  
The youngest Durin did not panic. Instead he seemed to be calmly debating what he was being told. It wasn't very good news. Especially with Dáin trying to reclaim Erebor. “I would not know of it, I fear I am far from my folk,” he said, expression not unfriendly. It was Elrohir who had taken him riding at dawn to show him the Trollshaws. It had brightened him for a while, and he had certainly enjoyed riding a horse instead of a pony. Overall, it had been a privileged experience, and he was still stunned by the beauty of the lands surrounding the Last Homely House.  
  
With elves there were always ulterior motives, though. He had known that he would be expected to offer something in return for their help. This wasn't as upsetting to Kíli as it might have been before the war. He understood, now, why certain decisions could not be made lightly, or be made without the best information possible. And he would help if he had the answers. Unfortunately, he did not.  
  
This manner of thinking was new to him. He had finally grown up, and in ways no one had expected. He was still kind-natured, but some of the fire of youth had gone out of him. His boldness had been severed, and while he was willing to try and please, he was still far from well.  
  
Fíli had gone down to the forges again, and that was good. Kíli had caused him some difficulty this afternoon, which was why the youngest Durin was here now, looking out over the water. The changes in his personality saddened his brother, and the work and learning that Imladris offered gave Fíli some relief from that. It wasn't that they had fought, it was more that Kíli was uncertain of what to feel or how to respond when Fíli couldn't … handle the changes. And there had been so many.  
  
“You look troubled,” Elrohir said, changing topics smoothly when he wasn't sure whether or not he had lost the dwarf to his fears again.  
  
When Kíli finally glanced up, cautiously meeting the elf's gaze, he looked confused. Dark brown was honey gold with worry. “I know they aren't my people anymore, but they were my family. They weren't perfect, but they looked out for my brother and I. Dwarves ... we raise our children among many. It was how our mother survived the loss of our father. We are one very big family. We don't always agree. We don't always do the right thing. But I do want … I want Dáin to succeed. Everyone deserves a home,” Kíli said, looking away. He was thinking on Bilbo's words from a time long past.  
  
Gray eyes sought out Kíli's, and the expression was gentle and sad. “The grief is yet too near for you, and despite it, I am certain that you would tell me if you knew anything. I am sorry to trouble you,” Elrohir said.  
  
His hand came to cover Kíli's where it stroked his bow uncertainly.  
  
“Glorfindel has agreed we might hunt tomorrow, if you are ready to handle your bow from a horse instead of a pony,” he said, trying to give the dwarf something to look forward to, and to lighten his spirits again.  
  
This made Kíli smile shyly. “As long as he does not get drunk at the feast afterward and tell that horrible story about the Balrog again. Once was enough for me.”  
  
“He's told it at least a thousand times by my count, and I could not agree with you more,” the elf said, chuckling. “I will see what I can do, but I can make no guarantees.”  
  
~*~  
  
       Fíli was standing in the gardens, looking out over the statues and winding paths surrounding him. It was wild and beautiful, though part of him missed the snow of the Blue Mountains. He could smell it, though, when the wind was just right. They weren't all that far from home. Not really.  
  
He heard a sound behind him, and turned to see Kíli. The other gave him the slightest of grins before coming to stand beside him. “What are you looking at?” the youngest Durin asked mischievously.  
  
This made Fíli laugh, the strain of the afternoon forgotten in a hard day’s work and the quiet of the 'dell. “You, of course,” he shot back, reaching out to take Kíli's hand. “How are you feeling?” he asked, using his grasp to sway the other until he had to step closer and their hips could touch. There was quiet between them, then, while Kíli took in what his brother was gazing upon.  
  
“I feel like I want to spend my time with you,” Kíli admitted shyly. The sun was warm, and he knew that someway, somehow … things would get better. No matter what the world did around them, they could always be here. Now. In this memory.  
  
His words made Fíli brighten, and with the strength of their joined fingers, the blond dwarf turned Kíli to face him. He stroked unruly dark hair back from his brother's shoulders, smiling at the scruff that was fast becoming a respectable-but-short beard. That was when he took a second to admire his handiwork. He traced a work-rough fingertip over a beautiful silver bead braided into Kíli's hair. The piece of jewelry was something he had borrowed the forges here to make, and it had a matching twin that had been braided into his own tresses.  
  
The sunlight that glinted off of the silver helped to wash away their sorrows, and to push back the shadow of nightmares. Here, now, Kíli had forgotten his hurts ... if just for a time. That thought only widened Fíli's smile. Especially when peace showed on his brother's face; and when that answering shy grin was suddenly young again. Fíli could not help leaning in closer, then, and when their lips met, Kíli gasped in relief. The sound was seconded by Fíli, who could not resist the other when he looked like he did.  
  
Fíli's strong hand untangled from Kíli's to come up and cup the back of his head, pulling them closer while deepening the kiss. That was, before Kíli lost his balance and the two tumbled into a nearby flower bed. This drew a surprised grunt from Fíli, and a scrunch-nosed, sweet giggle from Kíli.  
  
“I love you,” Fíli whispered then—catching sight of the old Kíli, and in awe that this much had surfaced again.  
  
“I love you, too,” Kíli murmured in reply, not as worried about the flowers he was crushing so much as the comforting weight of Fíli on top of him. They had been waiting. For what, neither was sure. The time had not been right. Not yet, with wounds still raw and hearts still aching.  
  
Now felt good, though, and just as Kíli had been about to reach up and pull them closer again, a droll voice from the walkway shattered the peace of the early evening.  
  
“Just what, exactly, are you doing to Lord Elrond's flower beds?”  
  
Kíli pulled away like he had been caught stealing another keg of mead. Sitting bolt upright he dragged Fíli up with him.  
  
“I fell, you see and ...” The youngest Durin stopped talking when he realized exactly who had caught them rolling in the greenery.  
  
“And he tripped?” Erestor offered, finishing Kíli's sentence while nodding towards Fíli.  
  
Fíli made a noise of abject frustration, and then fell back to the flower bed dramatically, sending colorful petals up into the air.  
  
This made Erestor laugh, and in turn, won the dark-haired elf a jab in the ribs from Glorfindel. The latter who had seeming appeared _just_ to reprimand his companion for 'interfering in the natural course of things,' before hauling the stern adviser away.  
  
“Later?” Fíli asked in the stunned silence that followed, trying to hope despite his frustration.  
  
“Tonight,” Kíli promised. He didn't want to wait any longer, either.

~*~  
TBC  
~*~  
  
**A/N:** Ah my god I love this chapter~ It still needs a beta read though, so pardon any dust. All positive feedback and encouragement is appreciated  <3 Thank you for reading!  
  
**Side Note:** This fiction has been previously submitted. I am re-working it, adding in the lost chapters, and then resubmitting it as I have time.

 **Disclaimer:** I would also like to add that I'm not into criticism. I'm writing this story for my own benefit. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't? No one is making you read it, and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you.

 **Beta Credit:** All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
**Zeta Reader:** All hail to the glorious thranduilfatherofgreenleaf http://thranduilfatherofgreenleaf.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A post-BoFA timeline divergent fanfiction. Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli survive the Battle of the Five Armies, but everything they know and love is changing, and Arda teeters dangerously on the brink of war.

**Chapter Seven:**

  
       It was a night of great festivity. The elves of Imladris were busying themselves with wine and song, and once again, Glorfindel was telling a tale about a certain notorious legendary beast. That he had slain. With great might and skill. (The part about dying never seemed to make it into the narrative.)

So it was with a modicum of relief that Fíli slipped away from the tables. Kíli had not attended the feast at all, and had said that tonight … he hoped to be ready. Fíli prayed his brother was sincere because he'd been longing desperately since their time together in the gardens.

The blond dwarf's heart pounded in anticipation as he followed the now-familiar trail that led to the guest houses; though what he found when he arrived was not his mate, but a note. A scrap of parchment fell from the crack of the door into Fíli's waiting hand. It was written in Kíli's surprisingly neat runes.  
  
“ _Come find me,”_ was all it said.  
  
The words were twice as mysterious in Khuzdul as they were in Westron, and Fíli's hand went to check his pocket for the vial of oil that Erestor had given him earlier. He wasn't entirely certain what it was for, but he had known enough to blush. In retrospect, he had wondered if he should have asked the elf to tell him more. He understood the basics well enough, but …

Some dwarves had sex very young, though they did not always take that person as a mate. It was more like an experimental phase. This wasn't an experiment, and Fíli didn't want to make a mistake. But maybe Kíli … No. His sibling had no more experience than himself.

Kíli had bragged about others, but Fíli had known, the way all brothers did, that it wasn't true in the slightest. It was a means to cover up for the teasing. For being 'too pretty'. Kíli was better looking than some dwarf-women; though Fíli would have loved him regardless of how he appeared.

_Find him …_

Fíli finally opened the door to their rooms, and quickly took note of things that were missing. Two blankets, a travel pack … a canteen, and Kíli's bow.

His bow? Had he misinterpreted? Did his brother simply want to spar and take practice shots?

He sighed, rubbing his temple, and that was when he noticed it. A canary yellow strip of fletching from an arrow; unusually fluorescent in the low light. It lay just outside the hall door. It was pointing off down the hall in the opposite direction in which Fíli had come.

Aha.

With a smile, Fíli was off, collecting fletching—and then entire arrows—as he carefully made his way out of the guest houses and to his right; following a winding dirt path along the hill. He would find an arrow here or there, tucked into the hollow of a tree or resting on top of a rock, all the tips pointing him in the right direction.

When the path ended, he crossed a bridge cut out of a fallen tree, until at last he reached an alcove surrounded by great pines. The moon was full, so the area was bright while still being secluded. It offered a wonderful view of the stained glass windows of the buildings of Imladris; and what little light they cast revealed Kíli's upturned countenance.

Hidden away in the niche, the dark-haired dwarf had been watching the night sky, and the far away festivities. In his hand, he held one last arrow. He was sprawled upon a blanket, and he smiled to Fíli, his smile taking the blond dwarf's breath away.

“I knew you'd find me, you always do,” Kíli said.

The look on his face was peaceful, and perhaps ... expectant.

Fíli sat down beside him then, plucking the final arrow from his lover's hand—before putting the lot of them back into Kíli's quiver. For a long moment, both of them looked out over Rivendell. The peace there was palpable. The roar of the river below where they sat drowned out all but a few notes of harp music, and then finally, Kíli turned to Fíli. There was so much love and desire in those brown eyes, and when warm lips met Fíli's, more certain than they had ever been before, the broader dwarf sighed softly.

“You've been so patient with me,” Kíli whispered into the gesture, breaking them apart only long enough to divest himself of his shirt.

Fíli was the next to move, his hands playing over Kíli's chest appraisingly before he eased off his own tunic. And when his touch returned to his sibling's skin, the brunet dwarf's breathing quickened. Kíli was easily excited, but it was still flattering to think he was fevered for Fíli; not just for a dream, or a pretty elf maiden. The leonine dwarf's breath caught in his throat when Kíli's fingertips answered in kind. Touching the scars on his freshly healed chest like a prayer.

“I nearly lost this,” the youngest Durin whispered, and then his mouth was following after his hands, pressing the lightest of kisses to the vivid marks there. “Never go, always stay by my side. Always … find me,” he breathed.

Fíli cupped the back of Kíli's neck, massaging in approval while pulling him closer. “I will not let you go. Ever. Through good times and bad. You are my One, the other half of my soul.” His hands trembled at the memory of when they had been separated as children. (After all, it was a fear that had been revisited recently, and old memories died hard.)

Fíli had gone into the mountains for his right of passage, to hunt with Thorin and Dwalin. And Kíli, too young, had been left behind.

The trio had only been gone for a month, but when Fíli had come down from the mountains an adult, he had found his brother pining. Kíli had missed him so greatly that he had stopped eating, and even stopped sleeping. It had taken months to the siblings to repair the damage done, and for Kíli to become bold and strong again.

Even then, Fíli had grasped the full truth of why Kíli had been lost without him. Even then, they had been one. Halves to each others' whole. Without Kíli, Fíli had been hollow, unsteady, and indecisive. Only years of intensive training had kept him able to function without his little brother at his side.

Dís had known. Their mother had always known, and that was why she forbade Thorin to ever separate them again. Thorin had thought Kíli weakened by the loss of a father he had never known. But even then, in the back of his mind, Fíli knew their uncle had grasped the truth as well.

The brothers were one soul.

Nothing had ever felt as right as this night felt now.

“Fíli ... please?” Kíli whispered, pulling him out of his reverie. The younger dwarf was trembling like he might slide into a fit of fear. But once Fíli whispered words of reassurance to him, Kíli steadied and pressed closer, confidence returning. His kisses went from scars to the side of Fíli's throat, and a gloved hand came up to stroke the side of his older brother's neck. Ever an archer, the gloves were always on.

Fíli laughed happily, the sound a low and pleased rumble. “Kee, slow down,” he replied, finally pushing the other back to the blanket.

When Kíli tried to kiss him again, he pressed him down—and back—so he could see the expression on his face. He watched that look of confused frustration turn to pleasure when he straddled him, and then rocked them together through the thick fabric of their breeches.

That was better.

The motion made the youngest Durin moan, the sound soft and a little high as dark eyelashes lowered. Kíli then bit his lip to quiet himself, but Fíli gently stroked the side of his mouth with a broad thumb, forcing him to stop. “I want to hear you,” he whispered.

Oh, how he wanted to hear him. In the past, he'd been able to finish just from lying beside his brother and listening to him pleasure himself. Always he had pretended to sleep through it, to not be aware. But whenever Kíli had come to completion, heartbreaking sounds of pleasure leaving his lips? That had been enough for Fíli to join him, whether he was touching himself or not.

Kíli was wet. He had washed in the river. It had only just occurred to Fíli as he felt the cool dampness still clinging to Kíli's sides. His brother had known enough to ask what he should do before … “Kee, let me? Let me do something?” Fíli whispered.

The brunette dwarf glanced at him curiously, but nodded. And then Fíli stopped moving against him and helped them both from the remainder of their clothing (gloves included). That was a relief, they had needed to be free from the confinement of trousers. Besides, now they could touch more, even if part of Kíli wished his brother hadn't paused them. He had been about say something, but Fíli's hot breath against his chest and belly stopped him, making him shiver.

“Just stay like this,” Fíli whispered, before slowly trailing kisses lower.

When he reached Kíli's hardness, dusky, hot, and broad; he paused to study it. Then his strong hand closed around it, giving a gentle squeeze that made his sibling gasp and arch pleasantly. Slowly Fíli descended, his tongue laving over his mate and tasting the saltiness at the tip. It wasn't bad. Musky, warm … and Kíli. All Kíli. Slowly his mouth and hand began to work in counterpoint, and his brother was left clutching at the blanket and shuddering. The sounds that the brunette dwarf made might have seemed tortured, but in fact, they were anything but.

It was as Fíli managed to take him completely in his mouth, that he felt Kíli's trembling hand nudge his where it supported his hip. Fisted within it was another vial of oil; small, discreet, and warmed by the touch of skin against the glass. It made Fíli smile. So Glorfindel had also given Kíli pointers. Why was he not surprised?

After a brief pause to struggle the offered bottle open, Fíli slicked his forefinger with the slippery stuff. It smelled minty and was pleasant against his skin. It was perfect, then, for what he was hoping to use it for. And when he fell back to distracting Kíli with his mouth, he began to tease with a thick finger. At first the younger dwarf had flinched and tensed, but soon enough he was moaning from the massage there.

When at last muscle began to yield, and each brush opened him slightly, Fíli began to press his finger in. There was hardly any resistance, and when his digit slid as deeply as possible, when he felt that tight heat clamp around him; Kíli began to dauntlessly plead for more.

That made the blond dwarf chuckle. In some things, his brother still had no fear.

His mouth teased while his fingers played, and soon enough, Kíli was open to him—as ready as Fíli could hope to have him with lack of experience on both of their parts. And the blond dwarf had just spread oil over the length of himself when he felt Kíli's hand moving to help; a look of wonder in those dark eyes as they caressed him, learned him.

At that, the blond dwarf regretfully came fully up off of his mate, moving over him and between his knees. Kíli was already wrapping strong legs around his lower back, lining them up. Fíli was nervous—almost soft with it—and suddenly he was unsure. He paused to reach for the second blanket, easing it under his sibling’s back, just to be certain of comfort.

Kíli's expression quickly went from desire to worry when Fíli started to stall, and he lightly squeezed his brother, feeling his uncertainty. “Fee?” he whispered.

“What if I hurt you?” Fíli replied.

Kíli's nose scrunched up, and he laughed sweetly, no judgment in his response. “You won't,” he whispered, his hand—now teasing Fíli back to full hardness—caused the blond dwarf's breath catch in his throat. “Make us one? It hurts more without you. We've been a single heart forever. Please take us through the rest?” The dark haired dwarf's expression was still surprisingly innocent, but the desire was there, too. The wildness, the strength of the blood of Durin; the feral desperation sliding just behind his gaze like clouds over the moon. It was beautiful.

There was also no stopping Kíli when he was determined, and there was no more time for nerves. The hand that had been encouraging, then guided the unsteady but willing Fíli. They locked eyes, and Kíli bared his teeth through the first plunge inside of him, but never did he pull away.

Fíli was gasping with the effort of caution and denying his own desires, but Kíli shook his head at him. "Don't hold back," he gasped. Fíli didn't fully believe him, especially when he moaned and shook through the initial thrust between them. At first the blond dwarf had thought the sound was one of pain, but his second half-thrust, a bit quicker, a little more forceful ... That was when he was taken by surprise, too. There was a storm of feeling, of closeness between them. This giving and taking ... it was sacred. And it didn't hurt. Not really.

This was forever summed up in one gesture, and that was exactly what they needed.

Only once did Kíli's muscles cramp from the new motions, but Fíli was cautiously again until a shift of his brother's position let him continue. From there, it was awkward and unsteady for the next few rocks of his hips. But then they were moving once more, and quickly; Kíli arching back against his mate as hard and as fast as he could take, years of holding back overcoming him.

Unfortunately, it was also not long before Fíli could no longer keep up with his partner. A moment of inspiration easily fixed that problem, though. The blond dwarf halted them for a few heartbeats—managing a careful maneuver that rolled him over onto his back without parting them.

This let Kíli ride him, and Fíli had never been so glad to relinquish control. Watching Kíli move with confidence again, watching him touch himself as he moaned wantonly and reached down to explore where Fíli disappeared inside of him … it seemed practiced. But Fíli knew it wasn't. This was years of knowing, fighting, and loving. Of understanding and desiring, culminating in one act that was far too long in its arrival.

And when Kíli arched back, his hand bracing along Fíli's bare chest and over the scars there; when he tightened down and wetness spilled out over his chest, Fíli came, too. The dark-haired dwarf whimpered loudly as his brother filled him; and that drew a few last thrusts from Fíli before he was spent.

When his sibling collapsed exhaustedly to his chest, the blond dwarf embraced him tightly, and neither cared in the slightest about the mess between them. They were both far too content, and they had waited much too long for this relief.

~*~

      Glorfindel leaned out across the railing, staring down into the garden.

Erestor followed his gaze knowingly to where Lindir waited patiently for Lord Elrond. The peredhel had certainly had enough wine for one night. It was good, though, to see him able to relax among his own people again.

“Did you explain it, then?” Erestor asked, noting a suspicious lack of dwarves at the table.

“I believe they retired early,” the blond elf said, leaning closer to Erestor. He smelled of mead, and had the contented look of being deep in his cups, but still able to stand.

“Perhaps we should do the same?” Erestor asked. The slight brush of the back of his hand to Glorfindel's silky robes catching the warrior's attention despite his inebriation.

Blue eyes fixed on long fingers, and then slowly moved to Erestor's darker gaze.

“I think that, perhaps, we could. This night is a good night,” Glorfindel said. “Peace reigns for a time. Even if these are our last days here. I would share them with you,” he said, leaning close enough that Erestor could not help sliding his arms around his mate's waist.

“Then share them,” the councilor replied; the tiniest of smiles turning his serious expression into that of an elf much younger.

~*~

      The two dwarves had washed up in the stream, and they both lay dressed, listening to the sound of festivities far away. Kíli was an unapologetic warmth against Fíli's chest. They both ached from barely healed wounds, and the newness of their activities; but neither felt any regret. Instead, they were content enough to spend the night awake, watching the stars. That was, until Kíli lamented that all that was missing was a good pint.

They were only parted for a short time, and that was when Fíli crept down to the tail end of the elvish feast, absconding with a flagon of mead that they both enjoyed sharing. And when dawn came, and they made their way back to the guest houses, they had to step over a few dozing elves to do so.

The wine must have been good. Very good. And Kíli could not help but think—tired and not entirely sober himself—that he might not be attending the hunt after all. Especially if their hosts were hungover.

~*~

      Lindir sat on the edge of his lord's desk as the other continued to write. Dawn had come, but his husband was still hard at work despite the wine. It wasn't altogether a bad thing, but the minstrel was tiring very quickly.

“My Lord, you should come to bed. It is nearly first light.”

Elrond's quill paused.

“Has it come so quickly?” the peredhel asked, setting the pen down to carefully cup Lindir's jaw. He loved watching those devoted eyes close with content whenever he touched him.

“I know that the orcs draw close, and I know that troubles are not far, but they would be better faced with rest, do you not think?” Lindir replied drowsily.

“And you, my musician, have not slept yet, either. Instead you have kept a most lonely vigil,” the elf lord said, finally pushing the parchment aside. He had been in the midst of penning a very long letter to Thranduil, King of Greenwood the Great—small thought it might have become.

“I am certain that we will learn what is happening. It will not take us long, but since there is nothing left to decide upon, rest is in order,” the minstrel said, standing and offering out his hand to his master.

Elrond took the outstretched hand, and let his put-upon mate help him up; then into sleeping clothes.

“Shall I spare you one last song, my Lord?” Lindir asked, guiding Elrond down to the bed with a tired smile gracing his lips. He had done a good deal of singing at the feast as well.

“Only if you will stay beside me when it is through, for I do not desire to be alone in my rest. You belong here, my love. It is your right. Stay.”

This made Lindir visibly relax.

“As my Lord wishes,” he said, perching to his normal position on the edge of bed as Elrond settled beneath the blankets, leaving a place for him to nestle under when he eventually followed.  
  
~*~  
TBC  
~*~

 **A/N:** -whistles innocently- Whelp. Here we go. Short but glorious :D  
  
**Side Note:** This fiction has been previously submitted. I am re-working it, adding in the lost chapters, and then resubmitting it as I have time.

 **Disclaimer:** I would also like to add that I'm not into criticism. I'm writing this story for my own benefit. If it happens to make you happy, please feel free to let me know! If it doesn't? No one is making you read it, and there are SO many other authors on this site. I'm sure at least one of them might be of interest to you. **Thank you for reading! <3  
  
Current Beta Credit: **Shalar0S **  
Old Beta Credit:** All hail to the glorious Eowyn. http://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynsmusings/pseuds/Eowyn  
**Old Zeta Reader:** All hail to the glorious Invaliduser http://archiveofourown.org/users/invaliduser/pseuds/invaliduser


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